


Well-Versed Replacement

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne Cannot Communicate His Way Out of A Paper Bag, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne is Manipulative for the Right Reasons, Damian Wayne is a good brother, Dimension Travel, Gen, References to Depression, Se.N, Tim Drake is Not Manipulated, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Tim is the Personification of Sadness, Timeline What Timeline, Worried Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 96,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: Everything in Tim Drake’s life seems to be falling apart; his best friends are dead, Bruce hasn’t spoken to him in nine months and the person most consistently checking on him is an ex-assassin with anger issues.On a wing and a prayer, the Bruce Wayne of an alternate dimension comes with hopes of spiriting Tim away. And things are bad enough that Tim might just let that happen.But even the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Everyone, Tim Drake & Teen Titans, Tim Drake & batfamily
Comments: 739
Kudos: 1830





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> It begins.

Cover created by Angel_Gidget and used with permission.


	2. Cover

Tim's phone vibrating against his wooden study desk is like that of an angry bee, furiously buzzing against the grain. The noise startles him, almost enough that he jerks right out of his W.E. pilfered office chair. He doesn't, but the alarm of it coupled with the hour plus the amount of coffee he's had over the last twenty-four hours means that it takes a long minute for his heart-rate to come back down.

The scare is a good thing really, it serves as a big enough shock to jolt him out of another wallowing reverie, the fifth he's had in as many hours. Dick, his adopted brother, might say he's fallen into a funk, but Tim's not sure _funk_ is the right word to describe how he feels right now. In fact, he isn't sure he's ever actually _been_ in a funk because the word sounds so underwhelming and simply incomparably incompatible to the hole of nothingness sitting in his stomach that sometimes likes to grow like a parasite. A pit of emptiness, void of most things.

Still, Dick would say Tim was in a _funk_ and, maybe that's really all this was, but, the lack of… _anything_ from Bruce. The emotions, or lack thereof, really makes it feel like this is _more_ than just a funk.

Still, Tim doesn't know what he was expecting in the first place. It isn't even like this is the _first_ of his birthdays Bruce has forgotten. No. It's just that, today of all days, he thought maybe Bruce would _try_ again. Yeah… Tim doesn't know what he was expecting, only that it was something more than _this_.

It's been nine months since Tim returned with Bruce, brought him home, back to present-day Gotham. Six months since he last saw the man face to face, outside of the occasional pass-by and head nod in cowls anyway. Three months since Bruce last called to talk about something that wasn't case or work related. And currently, it's 11:35pm on Tim's birthday, and Bruce hasn't called even once.

The phone on his desk vibrates once again and Tim shakes his head. _Enough, no more wallowing._

Smacking both his cheeks with two flat palms, he reaches across his laptop and past the cold cup of coffee, half-empty, to grab his phone, fumbling as he taps in the passcode.

It's Pru. Again.

Tim's not sure how he feels about how little he was expecting it to be Bruce.

If Pru were here, in front of him, she'd punch him in the nose for his wallowing. _Apparently punching each other in the face was their 'thing' now._

The text is short. _“You got a good eye for décor?”_

Though nothing more than a message, Tim can hear the dry, amused tone in his head, aided well by her mechanised voice-box. The first message is immediately followed by a photograph of peeling wall-paper and a suspicious stain on the ceiling. He cannot help but smirk. It's both amusing and yet hard to believe that, somewhere along the line, the two of them became friendly enough to send each other shitty apartment pictures.

 _'Home sweet home,”_ he types back, sore, overworked muscles in his thumb protesting at the action. _“Almost looks like Gotham.”_

Pru sends back a laughing emoji, and, _“It is, Tweety Bird.”_

Maybe it's due to the lateness of the hour, or perhaps it's the horrible lack of sleep, but it takes him three tries before those words actually sink in.

“ _Wait,”_ he replies back, frown furrowing his brow with a small amount of confusion, intermingled with disbelief. _“You're in Gotham? Since when?”_

Tim can hear her robotic sounding laughter in his head as he reads, _“Since Ra's last attempt on my life. Gotham seemed… well, not_ safe _, exactly, but_ safer. _Milan was a write-off and Bl_ _ü_ _dhaven was too seedy for my tastes._ ”

Tim pulls a face and catches sight of himself reflecting in his apartment window overlooking the city. Looking like he just tasted sour milk, he replies, _“How is Bl_ _ü_ _dhaven too seedy for you, Pru? You're an_ assassin.”

“ _An assassin with_ standards _.”_

Tim snorts. _“Sure. You, standards. That's a funny joke. Maybe you should try for Gotham's comedy scene while you're here. Fair warning, people aren't great with clown jokes. Or riddles, for that matter.”_

“ _Har-har,”_ she returns. _“Such a funny birdy. Well laugh it up, Tweety. I'll only be in Gotham for as long as it takes Ra's to find me again, then I'm_ gone _. I ain't suicidal, like you._ _I look out for number one and number one only._ _”_

Although he doesn't mean to, Tim sighs out loud. The action lifts a great weight from his chest, but then immediately piles it all back on, heavier than before.

“ _Maybe you've got the right idea,”_ he agrees reluctantly, insides curling at the sight of the words encircled by a green bubble before he hits send. _“Maybe looking out for myself is… well. Maybe I should try harder, for myself.”_ It isn't like anyone else is going to, Tim is forced to admit. Dick wanted to ship him off to Arkham less than twelve months ago and that… that still stings. It still hits _hard_. It's not like Dick ever apologised… and Tim doesn't want to go fishing for something that Dick doesn't mean.

“ _That dumb bastard still ignoring you, huh?”_ Pru, as blunt as ever. Even via text. Tim knows she means Bruce.

For the exact same reason that Tim likes her, he resents her; Pru has a way of slicing through everything, cutting through all the crap. She's good at that. Hacking away at all the flowery promises and words until she can tease out what people are really saying. She can call people out on their bullshit like Tim won't ever be able to. In a way, she's like Cass, except Cass still has some semblance of tact in her… or at least a little more than Pru―unapologetic for her actions or her words or _herself―_ does.

“ _Not ignoring me,”_ Tim responds, and it's weak. They both know it. Pru probably pities him for his faith in Bruce and Batman. Hell, if Tim was an objective observer, he would probably pity himself. _“B's just busy.”_

“ _Keep telling yourself that,”_ she answers, and Tim can hear the disbelieving snort that precedes it. _“Exactly how many words have you said to him since you ran all over the world looking for him? For that matter, how many words have you said to_ any _of them? I'm guessing a total of five, because grunts and hums don't count.”_

Melodramatic as always, Tim thinks as he rolls his eyes and once again catches sight of himself in the apartment window. He looks like a gremlin―with eyes so wide they nearly bulge out of his skull; freaky little creatures. Dark circles weigh under them, serving to sallow his complexion further. Tim can hardly deny that he looks blanched, like an overcooked root vegetable, his skin a sickly, pale white. The lack of colour in his cheeks highlights the gaunt, angular sharpness of his cheekbones, casting deep, dark shadows underneath. The pinched look gives an emaciated appearance at the edges, as though one can plainly see the years of exhaustion he tries to hide, creeping in on the peripheral. Tim looks older than seventeen.

Tim's phone vibrates again and he looks down.

“ _Do any of them check on you, Tweety?”_ Pru asks, and there's too much sincerity hidden in those words for Tim's liking. _A side effect of getting close to people,_ Tim knows, _is that they start to punch holes in barricades and walls thrown up in self-defence._ _Maybe that's why Bruce avoids it._

The answer is expected before he even sends it.

“ _No, but I'm fine on my own.”_

That much is true, at least. Tim _is_ fine on his own, he can manage, he _has_ managed. Maybe someone, somewhere, would protest, but Tim doesn't know them. It's not even that Bruce doesn't know how to parent, because Tim knows he raised Jason and before that, Dick. Sure, some could argue that he wasn't very good at it, but he did it. Hell, Bruce is raising Damian _now_.

Maybe it really is Tim. Maybe it's not that Bruce doesn't know how to parent, but that Tim doesn't know how to be _parented_.

In the two beats it takes for the drumming ellipses to form into actual words, Tim sees Pru's silent aspersions for Batman in his mind's eye. If she were here, she would quirk an eyebrow―in that way he knows only she can do, where it arches gracefully, but for two seconds too long, like a judgmental cat disdainfully considering a pair of leopard print yoga pants.

“ _Did they even ask about your mysteriously absent spleen? Have they even_ noticed _yet?”_ It's too critical, too judgmental, and perhaps that's why it feels like Damian has once again cut his line; Tim is free-falling and he doesn't know where he'll land. Is he reading too deeply between the lines again? Probably. With Pru, everything is bold-faced and upfront. She might be an assassin, but she'd never make a very good spy; too many secrets and too many games. Pru doesn't _do_ games.

“ _No,”_ he replies. _“And they'll never know because I'm not going to tell them.”_

There's a pause in the conversation and for a moment, Tim thinks he's been too harsh. She's just trying to look out for him. Which is a sentence he once thought he would never think about her. Funny how they ended up here after she, Owens, and Z tried to kill him in his hotel apartment with a rocket launcher. Pru― _Prudence's_ personality was like that of a wild cat. She moved like a wild animal, stalking her prey, somehow graceful even when her word choice was scraped out of the gutter and she was cussing worse than a sailor. When she went for a kill shot, her nostrils would flare wildly, as though a foul scent of sewerage had climbed its way up her olfactory senses. Every movement of muscle was deliberate, calculated. She honed herself― _or_ _had_ _been honed into_ _―_ an oscar-winning performance of a killer, although life like that was no fictional film to her. Tim respected her, even if she was no match for his detective skills. Pru, like him, was what she had been _made_ to be. Where Tim was a spyglass, she was a knife. Where Tim was a grapple hook, she was a revolver. Where Tim was a detective, she was an assassin. Where Tim had once been Bruce's tool, Prudence had once been Ra's. Yet, the only major difference between them was that Pru had broken free of her allegiance, her programming―the _thing_ inside her that told her to come running and to sacrifice herself for Ra's al Ghul―months ago.

Tim still hasn't, he isn't even sure he _wants_ to. He's not _happy_ like this exactly, but Tim sometimes thinks he's never really known the true meaning of that word. Tim is content when he has a purpose or a mission. Everything else just… falls away. It's easy to set aside his mountain of growing problems when there are other people to focus on. The white noise blocks out all the unimportant things and the adrenaline fuels him. When there's a mission, there's no need to consider sleeping or eating―not until the problem at hand is solved. There's no need to question why there's a hole inside him, one that keeps consuming everything and leaving him with nothing.

Traipsing across Europe was the last time Tim had felt meaningful. It was the last time he'd felt… content. Searching for Bruce, lost in time, had been his mission. Saving Tam and defeating the Council of Spiders while simultaneously destroying the League of Assassins from the inside out had been his mission. Nothing else had mattered then. Sleeping was forgone when you were avoiding rocket launchers and eating was too when stopping in one place for an hour was simply _too damn long_.

Tim misses that because those days were… _well,_ not _easier,_ but they provided him with a worthy goal, a more noble cause; where Batman's crusade was saving Gotham, his was to save Batman. Without a need to be saved, it's all too easy for Bruce to push Tim to the wayside. Another tool, back into its place, stored away until needed again. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying went.

“ _Right,”_ Pru's response comes through, clipped. _“Y'know, 'cause that seems smart. Not telling the only people who might need to know. Like, didn't you nearly_ die _last week? What was it again―bomb in the bank? One of these days you're going to get in over your head, birdy boy.”_

A bitter smirk rises to his lips. _“_ _I'm pretty practiced at defusing bombs, Pru. Had to be, B wouldn't let me out into the field unless I could do it in ten seconds or less_ _―something against exploding Robin's you know_ _. Besides,”_ he shrugs, though there's no one there to see it, _“if I die, y_ _ou'll be the only one who notices I'm gone.”_

Tim taps out the text, then deletes the entire message. Pru probably won't appreciate the self-depreciating note. Tim wouldn't if he were her. It sounds like he's fishing for sympathy, but he doesn't want to sound like that at all. It just… feels like the truth.

“ _I'm touched by your concern,”_ he types back instead, wry, moving back to a rhythm that they're both more comfortable with. _“Truly. I am. Thanks, mom.”_ Neither of them are the _talk your feelings out_ kind of people.

“ _Sarcastic little shit,”_ comes the reply, accompanied by a laughing face emoji. _“Go ahead and get killed then. I don't care. You won't see me coming running after you.”_

Every word is a lie and Tim knows that and… and it feels… kind of nice to have someone in his corner. Although, he's not sure how he feels about it because he's not sure how long this friendship between them will last. People tend to run from Tim, so he treads carefully.

“ _You need somewhere to crash?”_ he asks, turning serious again. Tim hesitates over the _send_ button before he shakes his head and hits it. Then, like a spike between the ribs, a stab of worry courses through him. Is this overstepping their relationship? Is this too soon for their friendship, tentative and new as it is?

“No,” he eventually mutters out loud to himself, gripping the phone tightly between both hands. “There's no point in over thinking things.” _Pru will either run from him or she won't._

Tim stares at the sent words until he's cringing. _Why did he ask her that?_ The responding ellipses nearly send him into cardiac arrest.

Hell, what is he doing? Acting like she's his first crush. Tim doesn't even like her like that. Pru sure as hell doesn't like _him_ like that. Maybe the lack of contact with other people is really getting to him. Perhaps Pru is right, he clearly needs to talk to someone. Maybe he should at least call Alfred, let the man know he's still alive.

“ _Why?”_ Pru's text comes through, but Tim can't read the tone behind it. Damn, this probably would have been easier as a phone call. _“You offering?”_

Tim steels himself, sucking in a small breath through his teeth. Then, _“Yeah. Sure. It's a two story penthouse. Sweet digs with the added bonus that you'll never even have to see my face if you don't want to.”_

It feels as though he holds his breath the entire time Pru's ellipses are rolling across the screen. _God,_ is he _this_ desperate for a friend? _Tim tries to ignore the little 'yes' that sounds from the back of his head somewhere, but is entirely unsuccessful_.

“ _Well, shit Tweety, if that's alright with you? I ain't gonna knock a penthouse over this crappy-ass dump. Plus, I'm betting your security is better if Ra's sends ninjas, right?”_

The whoosh of air inside him all comes out at once. It leaves him feeling a little winded, but his breath comes easy after a second.

“ _Yeah, security here is better than the Batcave,”_ he returns, already reaching for his mouse to save the all-but-forgotten W.E. project sitting on his computer monitor. The numbers stare at him judgmentally, swimming in his vision like someone stuck alphabet soup in a blender.

“ _Great,”_ Pru says back. _“Got an address?”_

Tim types it in and sends it off, halfway through an additional message for the passcode to the lift just as an enormous crash in his kitchen downstairs sends him surging to his feet, jerking up at the loud noise.

“Shit,” he whispers under his breath, the air in the room suddenly ice. There's someone―or _something_ , maybe―in his apartment. Great. Good. Just what he wants on his birthday. A home invasion. Right after he touted his fantastic security too, which _weirdly,_ hasn't gone off yet. There's clearly a glitch in there somewhere that needs fixing. Awesome. He'll add that to his list of things to do.

Thumbing the backspace button for the halfway composed message, Tim types in quickly, _“Sorry P. gotta go. someone in my house. text u later if i'm not dead.”_

In response, before he can slip the phone into his tracksuit pocket, he gets, _“Cool, cool. Don't die.”_

Tim spares half a second to smirk at the message before going for the bow staff under his bed. Whoever is in his house isn't a regular burglar. Other than maybe Selina, there's not a single criminal in Gotham who would bother to steal from a place like this―and Selina would only do it for the challenge. After the conversation with Pru, Tim's really hoping it's not ninjas, but he's hoping it's the Council of Spiders even less. The first time he ran into them he lost his spleen, he'd _really_ rather not have a repeat.

After retrieving his weapon from it's safe location, and with its familiar, reassuring weight resting solidly in his hands, Tim slowly pads across the room―bedsocks and carpet muffling his footfalls. The stairs from the top floor to the lower, made of wood, are slightly more of a challenge, but Tim aptly avoids all the squeaky places. This is his home and he knows it better than anyone.

In his kitchen, there's a mess of pots and pans―his dirty dishes, left beside the sink to be done at a later time―now on the floor. They've been bumped into. Or pushed off the counter, but Tim doesn't see why anyone would do that unless they were a cat, maybe. Or, again, Selina.

A movement of shadow in his living room spins him on his heel, extending his bow staff with the press of his thumb as he moves forward hastily, but stealthily. Every footstep is utterly silent. It seems that whoever has broken into his apartment, there's only one of them. That rules out the League of Assassins, as they tend to travel in packs, so at least he can cross vengeful ninjas off his list.

The shadow moves again and Tim readies himself, plastered against the side of the door, waiting for the shadow to shuffle just an inch to his left… _there_ _―_ _!_ Tim swings his bow staff with all his weight thrown behind it, aiming for the intruder's legs. It works, and the man―and it's definitely a man, too heavy to be a woman―goes down hard and fast onto his ass as Tim smashes the opposite end of his bow staff into the light switch. It doesn't break at the movement, but Tim knows there's probably damage.

The room, previously dark, but with the exception of the little city lights that dotted the cityscape, is instantly flooded in light. Both of them squint at it, the unexpectedness of it hurting Tim's eyes.

It's his eyes that adjust first and― “Bruce?” the name falls off his tongue in shock and disbelief. _Why on earth is Bruce here? And at this time of night too?_ Well, maybe his security system isn't glitching.

Then, Bruce moves. The man makes an attempt at sitting up, rather than lying defenceless on his back on the floor like an overturned turtle. And Tim knows―this isn't Bruce.

The bow staff jerks up again, the action mostly made of muscle memory as he holds it level with the imposters face.

“ _Who are you!?”_ he almost snarls, settling into a crouch, ready to attack or defend himself at a moments notice. “Why are you wearing his face and what do you want?”

The fake Bruce with eyes just as painfully blue, like the real thing, studies him a moment with a shrewd gaze as his hands rise slowly, palms facing Tim.

“It's alright,” the imposter says, voice low and gravelly, but yet nothing like Bruce when the cowl comes on. The fake Bruce sounds more like he's drunk too much whiskey rather than been gargling rocks. “I'm not going to hurt you, I swear.”

“Forgive me if I take precautions,” Tim snaps back with a hint of dry humour and a sneer, sinking more solidly into his stance. “I don't take kindly to my home being invaded. Especially by people masquerading as my foster father.”

Fake Bruce's eyebrows raise, but the expression is not one of surprise. With eyebrows smushed together, forming a little wrinkle in the place where they meet, the expression resembles one that―on _Tim's_ Bruce―would be dubbed as that of extreme concern. Not that that is an expression Tim has really seen before, though. Or, at least not since Damian threw him off the top of a dinosaur in the Batcave and Bruce came to collect his broken, mangled body from the cave floor below.

“Foster father?” Fake Bruce questions. To anyone else, the alarm growing behind the façade would be unnoticeable, but to him it's like reading a code with the cypher in hand. Whoever this man is, he's good. “He didn't adopt you?”

Tim's lips twist and settle into a thin line. _Bruce did adopt him, but not out of love._

“If you haven't noticed,” he replies, shuffling closer so that his bow staff is less than an inch from the imposter's Adam's apple. “I'm the one with the weapon here. You'll answer _my_ questions, not the other way around.”

Fake Bruce nods seriously, then, “Forgive me, you're right. Go ahead, ask away.”

Whatever Tim was expecting from this interaction, _this_ wasn't it. He starts simply. From the top.

“Who are you?” The words are less urgent from before, but they promise no less danger.

Once again, fake Bruce nods, as though he's expecting this question.

“I am Bruce Wayne,” he begins, watching Tim's reaction like a microbiologist searching for signs of life on a sample of dirt from a distant planet. Hoping and praying for something, although Tim doesn't know what. “But I am not the Bruce Wayne of _this_ universe. I am not, in essence, _your_ Bruce Wayne.”

Tim's eyes rocket up to his hairline and his grip on his bow staff slackens out of surprise before he remembers to get a grip on it and reaffirms himself, trying to remember how protocols for this sort of interaction were supposed to be handled. _Really, he should call Bruce, but there was always the chance that that wouldn't go well anyway._ Perhaps it is better that Tim handles this.

“You're not… you've jumped universes?”

Fake Bruce hums.

“Yes,” he finally says, once he's sure Tim's attention is completely focused again. It's almost courteous of him to give Tim time to get over his initial shock, his own Bruce would never do that. Not in a million years. The world kept up with Bruce Wayne, not the other way around.

“I did it on purpose too,” the imposter version of Bruce continues, little smile dancing at the corners of his lips. It kind of… freaks Tim out. _Bruce_ doesn't smile. Not in any universe. Except, apparently this one does. “Which is not something that happens very often.”

 _No,_ he has to agree. _It isn't._

“Why?” Tim asks, confusion only growing the longer Bruce talks. “Why are you universe jumping _on purpose?_ Don't you know how dangerous that is? What if you get lost and can't find your way back to your own universe?”

Fake Bruce regards him a moment and then, in a shocking twist that nearly gives Tim a heart attack, begins to laugh.

“I knew my Timmy was in there somewhere,” fake Bruce says, and the words sound strangely cryptic. “I knew your heart was there.”

Tim scowls. This Bruce is still just as annoying as his Bruce, that's for sure. Maybe that's a multiverse constant.

“Listen,” Tim begins again, scowl deepening into something he hopes would frighten off even a brown bear. “I want to know exactly why you're here and then I want you _gone_ again. This universe doesn't need another Bruce Wayne; we already got one.”

Fake Bruce's eyes close briefly as the amusement on his face dies. And Tim was wrong, before. The harder and closer he looks, the more he can see the difference between his Bruce and this Bruce. Fake Bruce is more weathered, his skin more coarse and rough, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes more pronounced. The lines of laughter on his face sink away easily to reveal the layers of pain, unable to help but poke through, like piercing needles into flesh.

This Bruce has seen a lot and been through a lot. This Bruce is _aching_. There's a silent scream haunting the air, like that of a man mourning. The grey flecks in his hair are more obvious, like the stress all just became too much. This looks like a Bruce Wayne who was _broken_ by Batman and had to piece himself together again from the Humpty Dumpty remnants that the scavenger crows hadn't picked away at.

“There's a reason I'm here, Timothy,” he says then, and the seriousness in his weary voice sends shudders up and down his spine. “I'm not… I'm not just traversing the multiverse for fun.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, voice flat. “Then get on with it then. Why are you here?”

Fake Bruce gives him one last look before his gaze drops to his lap, where his hands have now settled. He looks uncomfortable, but more than that he looks struck by grief.

“The Tim in my universe he… he died. A long time ago.”

The silence in the room rings louder than any bell ever could.

“I _tried_ to grieve. I tried to… to let go. I threw myself into Batman and I swore that I would never let another child take up the mantle of Robin―and I stayed true to that, Tim, I did… then I hung up the cowl, because it wasn't enough.”

Brick by brick a wall is crumbling somewhere inside of him. Fake Bruce's piercing eyes meet his and it's a haunted look he wears.

“I never was able to let you go, Tim.”

Tim isn't sure how much deeper his scowl can get, but he tries it anyway and is pleased to register the surprise behind fake Bruce's eyes.

“So what do you want from me then, huh?” he asks. “I'm not him, I'm not your Tim.”

“No,” fake Bruce says, shaking his head. “You're not, but… but you're the closest thing I have left of him. I want… I want you to come with me. Come live in my universe with me.”

The laugh that bubbles up out of Tim sounds sour and jaded and strangled. The look fake Bruce gives him for it is both aggrieved and sorrowful.

“Why me?” he barks, slamming one end of his bow staff down onto the wood. “Why _me_ exactly? There are a million other Tim's in a million other universes, why do you want me?”

And at that, Bruce has the good grace to look away, ashamed.

Realisation dawns on Tim as his lip curls up into a sneer.

“You've tried other Tim's, haven't you?” he deduces, watching fake Bruce wilt. “You tried other universes and they all said _'no'.”_

At least Bruce is honest when he nods and whispers an affirmative, “yes.”

With his free hand, Tim runs his fingers through his oily locks of hair that haven't been washed in two days as he appraises the fake version of his father, still sitting on the floor and looking more worn and heavy than Tim has ever seen _his_ Bruce look before.

“So,” Tim begins anew. “Let me get this straight. You want me to, _what,_ be a replacement for the dead Tim in your universe out of some misguided attempt to once again have the child you _killed?”_

Fake Bruce winces uncomfortably, but nods all the same.

“Well, yes,” he finally says, barely above a whisper, sounding ashamed―like he's only just now realised what it is he has selfishly been asking of every Tim in every universe before him. “I suppose that is what I am asking.”

Silence trickles into the room once more, filling up the space like a water balloon that's too full; ready to burst. _It's not like his Bruce would notice if he left. Tim's not even one-hundred percent sure he would care even if he did._

The clock on the mantle, just below Tim's television, chimes to signal midnight. _Tim's birthday has been and gone and there was no call from Bruce. Not even a single, solitary text._

“Heh. Why not,” he shrugs, feigning nonchalance in his tone as well. It's sudden, almost fast enough to give oneself whiplash, but Fake Bruce's head snaps up to him, as though he cannot believe his ears.

If the last nine months has proven anything, it's that he won't be missed here― _and maybe, in this other universe where his other self is no longer alive, maybe his dead friends are._

Visions of Kon and Bart swim to the forefront of his mind along with thick emotion, quickly pressed down. Maybe, in a new universe, he can leave the mistakes of his past behind. Perhaps, this slightly broken Bruce's world is the best option for a twisted, broken Robin like him.

Bruce gapes a moment, shocked. Then, “Really?”

It's not like he's got anything to lose. Besides, when this Bruce eventually decides he doesn't _like_ the Tim he's managed to scrape off the side of the gutter―and he will―he'll be free to search for his team and for his friends.

“Yeah, sure,” Tim says, more firmly. “I'm pretty well-versed in being a replacement. What is once more?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to angel_gidget for permission to use her summary. Thank you for being Minty Fresh, friend. 
> 
> Once again, a massive thank you to GraysonsFlight for being an incredible beta. She is the most amazing beta and you should absolutely check out her writing as well!

_Pru arrives just before dawn to an empty house and a handwritten note. The apartment is lovely, nicer than anything she ever shared with her mom, but nepotism could do that―not that Tim doesn't deserve his day job and the success earned from it; he works hard. More than he lets on, she thinks. Eh, whatever. She likes the kid, but more importantly, he's one of the only people to go head to head with Ra's and somehow manage to come out alive._

Gone for a while, _reads the note, scrawled hastily in Tim's block letter writing. Pru tries not to frown, although she is unsuccessful._ Don't worry, I'll be fine.

_It feels redundant after the few text messages they've passed between one another. Another universe, hell. If Tim had asked her, Pru would have told him that she would not go anywhere with a woman claiming to be her mother from another universe. As much as she missed and had loved her mom, the woman had been a piece of shit and she wasn't so blind as to not know that. Besides, the whole concept was fucking whack._

“ _Sure you will kid,” she says aloud to herself, pocketing the note. She knows the note is for her and her alone, because Tim's asshole family seems to care less about him than Pru's mom cared about her before she died._

_P_ _ru pulls out her burner phone_ _and rereads the couple of messages they had sent within the last hour as she had made her way to Tim's apartment while he had allowed himself to be zapped into another universe._

_She'd known the kid was crazy, but really this was just taking it to a whole new level._

“ _Hey. Bruce from another universe showed up. Dimension travel is crazy, Pru. I hope I can figure it out before I need to come back―and I am coming back by the way. Just gotta find my friends first. Sorry for ditching you.”_

“ _Jfc kid,” she had replied, fingers struggling over the small keypad. “Do you sleep?”_

“ _Keycard is under the doormat,” came the next message. Then, as though an afterthought: “I sleep. Sometimes.”_

_Pru wants to snort, just like she did the first time._

“ _Yeah okay, thanks,” she had said._ _“And don't worry about ditching me―Bruce Willis and I have a lot of catching up to do.”_

“ _Die hard?”_

“ _Of course. It might be a Christmas movie, but it's a good watch all year round.” She had some strong feelings about that._

“ _Die hard is not a Christmas movie.”_

“ _Yes it is and you know it.”_

“ _Just because something is set during the period of Christmas doesn't mean it's a Christmas film.”_

_Pru_ _shot_ _off an emoji with a tongue sticking out, but then it_ _had taken her cold fingers_ _a full minute to craft her next message._

“ _So how long are you going to be over there for?” She'd briefly wondered if he could hear her concern through the text. She hoped not, because that would've been lame and she knows Tim can take care of himself._

“ _Don't know. Shockingly, I've already worn out my welcome with Jason and Dick, but I kind of expected it to be honest. This Bruce, although clearly still grieving over his dead son, seems as though he still has about the same amount of emotional forethought as the B in my―your―universe does.”_

_Fuck. This kid._

“ _That sucks,” she'd texted back, trying for a lighter tone. “But also, I was asking for purely selfish reasons. I gotta throw a house-party while the parents are away, right?” Tim got her sense of humour, she just hoped he appreciated it._

“ _Admit it,” came the next snarky reply._ _“You just wanted to hang out with me.”_

“ _You're delusional,” she'd texted through a short laugh._ _“But I guess I already knew that given that you dress up like a bird every night and have the self-preservation skills of a lemming.”_

_She had thought the conversational tone to be heading in a lighter direction before: “I don't know how long I'll be here, Pru. For as long as it takes for me to find my friends, I guess.”_

_Oh, this kid needed so much therapy. Leagues more than she did. And that was saying something, given her previous profession as a paid murderer._

“ _You must really miss them,” she had tapped out slowly, with sympathy_. _“Most people wouldn't cross universes just to find versions of their friends that weren't dead.”_

“ _Yeah, they were like my family―or, at least what I imagine a family without a ton of mental disorders would be like.” Now_ that _she could relate to. That was the League of Assassins in a nutshell._

“ _Trust me,” Pru had typed back._ _“Anyone dressing up in spandex most definitely has some issues.”_

_Tim's texts had ceased after that. It hadn't been surprising not to hear a goodbye; they never gave each other those._ _Never knowing when the next adios would be the last made it easier to just avoid them all together._

_With a sigh, Pru re-pockets her burner phone and pinches the bridge of her scarred nose. This was going to be one hell of a ride for the kid._

_Glancing around the massive, open-plan kitchen she shuffles off to explore, poking her head upstairs and then coming back down to do a sweep of the lower floor before settling into the living room with a satisfied smile playing at the edges of her mouth._

“ _These_ are _sweet digs,” she whistles lowly, kicking off her combat boots and collapsing into the lounge as she admires the size of the television. “Kid wasn't kidding.”_

_The sofa_ _practically engulfs her,_ _but there's a degree of comfort to be found in feeling protected by something on all sides._ _It's a false sense of security, she knows that because she's killed enough sitting ducks herself, but it's nice to_ feel _it anyway._ _Tim's probably right, Ra's and his ninjas aren't likely to find her here. It's not likely that Ra's could even conceive the fact that_ _Red Robin would_ _be_ _willing house a killer, especially one like her with so much blood on her hands._

_Pru has killed a lot of people in her life, more than she could ever count. All for Ra's. At one point, she never questioned it. Some days the possibility that she could still be there, killing, frightens her. Other days, she doesn't know what changed. Well, that's not exactly true._ _Watching Owens and Z, the closest thing she'd ever had to a real family, brutally murdered for sport, had definitely been a factor. And then there was Tim, who although wounded himself, had pulled her out alive and at least physically whole._

_Like a desperate fucking child she'd clung to this hero who had barely been_ _more_ _than a child himself._ _Hell, up until_ _a few hours ago_ _, the kid really had been a child_ _―legally, at least_ _._ _Though,_ _Prudence_ _doubt_ _ed_ _Tim_ _'s_ _really had the chance to be a child in over a decade. Children d_ _idn't_ _do what he d_ _id._

_With a snort and a shake of her head, she pushes the memories away. There's nothing to do about the past now, n_ _or should there be_ _. She_ _'s_ _already made her choice, they all did._ _All that_ _is_ _left_ _is_ _to reap the consequences of those choices._ _Allow the birds to come home to roost, so to speak._

_Head filled with the delightful plan of watching Bruce Willis battle it out with air-ducts for the next two and a half hours, and with hand outstretched halfway to the television remote, Pru is almost relaxed_ _and comfortable with her new environment when a sharp noise undoes it all._

_A piercing ping rings throughout the room, the noise emanating from the direction of the kitchen._

_It's an elevator, her brain supplies without conscious thought; the dinging noise in the foyer sending harsh, wailing alarms of wild panic off in her head._

_Body already moving from the luxurious, soft folds of the sofa, Pru's eyes dart around the room instinctively, searching for a hiding place._

_Fuck, she is becoming laxer by the day. If Owens were here, he would have berated her for her foolishness―_ always check for exits first, Prudence. _It's a voice she's never truly been able to shut off, despite the fact that her mentor and friend had been dead for over a year now. It's an undeniable fact: she still misses him._

_It is fortunate that there is a well-placed wall between the living room and the kitchen, because a door bangs open and an enormously loud voice hollers through the kitchen, unrepentant for the damage it's doing to her ear-drums._

“ _TIM!”_

_The voice is scratchy and sounds kind of desperate, but it's an unnecessary detail that Pru shoves away almost immediately, choosing instead to curse creatively under her breath and glance around with renewed fervour for some place to hide._

_There's a storage closet just past the television big enough to fit her._

“ _Tim!”_

_A_ _new voice this time. Pru bolts for the closet and closes it silently behind her. It's not an assassin, she already knows that, but the frantic panic and racing of her heart has not yet slowed._ _Whoever is out there_ _m_ _ay not be an assassin, and may not be looking for her_ _,_ _but that doesn't mean they're any less dangerous._ _Red Robin_ _is_ _a good strategist and fighter, but Pru kn_ _ows the kid once had a far more frightening mentor. She just hopes_ _n_ _one of the shrieking voices in the kitchen belong to him, because as presently thankful as she is that she's never met Tim's adoptive father and Gotham's protector, she'd rather like to keep it that way._

“ _I told you, B. I told you four times!” Someone different exclaims, sounding exasperated._

“ _Fuck it, Dick he ain't here,” grumbles another._

“ _Quite frankly, I couldn't care less about Drake's whereabouts.” That voice is familiar to her, although it takes her a minute to place the prepubescent tone as belonging to that or Ra's Al Ghul's grandson._

“ _Don't be an asshole, Damian, it's the kid's_ eighteenth, _” scolds the voice from before, sounding reproachful._

“ _Was. It is now_ _5:10_ _,”_ _the boy sniffs unapologetically. “_ _Just over five hours since the day of Drake's birth.”_

“ _Boys, please,”_ _says a deeper voice,_ _tight, strained and anxious._ _“Stop arguing and help me find Tim._ _H_ _e has to be around here somewhere.”_

_It almost_ _sounds_ _like he's trying to convince himself._ _If_ _Pru_ _didn't feel so awful for the kid, she might've sniggered. When she had been_ _young_ _, Pru would have done anything to be a rich kid with a mom who didn't drink and smoke herself into oblivion every night_ _―_ _everything except actually give up her mom, that was._ _Even though her mom had died while Pru was in her late teens,_ _a_ _fter meeting Tim, she's beginning to think she_ _been_ _blessed with the better deal._

_Serves them all right Tim's gone. Flighty fucker at the best of times._

“ _Why are we always rescuing you from your monumental fuck-ups again?”_ _snarks the snappy voice, unrepentantly harsh._

“ _Jason, language!”_

“ _You know it's true, Dick. He's a bad father,”_ _the Jason character continues, not pulling any punches. “_ _Hell, I don't even know why_ I _am here.”_

“…”

“ _Do you really think that lowly of me, Jason?”_ _The voice is soft and hurt. Pru doesn't think she ever told her mother she was a bad mother, even if it was true._

“ _Oh come_ on, _old man,”_ _says Jason with a scoff. If Pru could see him from her hiding place, she's sure he would be rolling his eyes._ _“Have you even checked in with Tim recently? I'm beginning to think I'm the best family member he has and that's a low fucking bar._ _I tried to kill the kid!_ _”_

“ _Maybe I would have phrased it differently,”_ _Dick hesitates,_ _“but you've been pretty… absent lately, Bruce. Not just with Tim, but with all of us.”_

“ _I've been_ _busy_ _with the League,”_ _says the voice noted as Bruce, like it's some sort of excuse. It's a pretty fucking weak one in Pru's opinion._

“ _For nine months, B?” Jason, again. “Come on,_ _you've been avoiding us._ _If you needed us to fuck off for a while, why didn't you just say_ _._ _It would've been better than you getting up and disappearing on us the minute you got back. I mean, I know you don't owe me nothing, but_ _―_ _”_

“ _Jason, that's not_ _―_ _this is not on you, son, I_ _―_ _”_

“ _Don't call me your son_ _―_ _”_

“ _Jason's right. Would a phone call really have killed you?” Dick again, interrupting what sounds like an argument, brewing. “We've all been affected by everything that has happened over the past year. Some days I think you think we're disposable or, I dunno, at least easily replaceable!”_

“ _Dick,_ no, _I could never replace you.” Bruce sounds aghast, distressed. “I could never replace any of you. You're my children and I―”_

_The frantic rush of words escaping the man's mouth, tone more that of pleading than anything else, is cut off by a sharp bark._

“ _Richard!”_

_Ra's grandson again, but this time it's startlingly close. The child is in the living room. The slats in the closet allow for shadows to travel across Pru's sight, although nothing more than that._

_Mouth going dry, out of habit, she reaches up to rub her earring―a cross―as she sends up a silent prayer. Maybe she has no right to pray for anything, given the life she's led, but still, she believes, and it's a force of habit by this point anyway._

_The argument―or whatever moment the trio in the kitchen was just having―comes to an abrupt halt. Heavier footsteps trudge into the room, more than just one set._

“ _What is it, Dami?” says Dick, alert and concerned._

“ _There are shoes here,” the boy says._

_Pru's hand flies from her earring to her mouth. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Her shoes!_

“ _They are not Drake's,” the child continues. “They are too small; I believe they must belong to a woman.”_

“ _Combat boots?” states the Jason character, curiously._

_Bruce's voice turns dark. “There's someone here. There must be someone in Tim's apartment. Fan out and find them.”_

_Order given, they split._

_Pru sends up another silent prayer, running her hand from shoulder to shoulder and then from forehead to heart. This, however, proves to be her undoing. Because the second she blinks, the closet door is opening wide, revealing her._

_It's the child. Ra's grandson. The heir Ra's was given, although not the one he wanted―that open role was the one he continued to try and push Tim into._

“ _Intruder!” the child cries, stumbling back in fright._

_Everything in Pru wants to leap forward and attack, subdue the threat, but she knows that if she does, she has no hope of convincing them. No hope of getting out of this alive._

_Heavy footsteps pound through each room until they convene upon her and the child, and slowly Pru raises her hands._

_Out of the shadows of the closet, Pru can see them all clearly. They're all taller and more muscular than her, save the child, but it's the broadest, oldest looking member that steps forward and takes the lead. It's like a familiar dance to them, Pru can see. The younger ones fall in line, just like she had behind Owens and Z. In a way, she can respect it, in another it just pisses her off._

“ _Who are you and what do you want?” Bruce Wayne is clear, concise and to the point. She likes that, even if the glint of violence behind his eyes sends a strong shudder of fear down her spine. This is a man that has faced Ra's countless times. This is a man she has no hope against._

“ _I'm… a friend of Tim's,” she begins. If Tim were here, she thinks he would be impressed no noses were broken yet. Namely, her own._

“ _If you were a friend of Tim, why were you hiding in the closet―”_

“ _She lies!” the child spits, hissing like a snake, hiding behind his big brother. “I know her face, I saw her! She works for my grandfather!”_

_The face before her hardens, defences rising, posture tensing. “You're an assassin.”_

“ _No!” she nearly shouts, sending the boy a steely look. It pleases her when he withers behind his brother just a fraction further. “Well, I_ was, _but not anymore. The League of Assassins is in shambles since Tim―well, since he duked it out with Ra's. I… I ran. I gave it up. The Council of Spiders killed the only two reasons I had to stay. I was going to stay here, with Tim―”_

“ _Where is he?” the shorter man standing behind Bruce interjects while Ra's grandson, Damian, attempts to pretend he isn't clinging. Pru places the voice as the one earlier dubbed Richard, or Dick. “Where is Tim, what have you done with him?”_

_Pru laughs openly, unable to hold back the bitterness._

“ _Me?” she asks, incredulously. “I heard you all from the kitchen. Don't pass off this fucking mess to me―”_

“ _I like her,” Jason says quietly, a smile on his lips._

_Bruce, simultaneously, asks: “Answer the question, Assassin. Where is he?”_

“ _Listen,” she returns with a small scoff. “Tim didn't duck out of dodge because of me, I can assure you. Tweety Bird is in another universe.”_

_There's a beat of silence._

_Then, “Come again?” It's Jason, incredulous._

_If Pru had hair she'd be yanking it out right now. As it is, she simply shakes her head and runs a palm over her scalp, eyes briefly dropping to the floor. Maybe that's not such a good idea in a room full of… questionable characters, but, whatever. Sue her. She's made worse choices._

“ _I don't know the full story exactly,” she begins, wondering where to start before an idea strikes her._

“ _Here,” she says, digging out her burner phone and the note Tim left on the table for her. “This will probably explain it better than I can.”_

_Bruce takes the phone while Dick reaches forward to grab the note, opening it and scanning over it with Jason and Damian peering over to read it as well._

_Pru's not sure how far Bruce scrolls back to read the messages Tim and her have exchanged, but vindictively she hopes it's far enough back that he at least reads the message she sent several hours ago calling him a bastard._

_Huh. And she criticised Tim for having the self-preservation skills of a lemming. Maybe it's time for a little introspection of her own._

“ _He's… gone?” the man finally says, looking a little broken around the edges as he looks up at her._

_Pru tries not to feel for the man. Honestly, he deserves it for being such a terrible father._

_Maybe Tim just got a better deal, is what she wants to say. Pru isn't known for holding her tongue, but perhaps she's getting better. Saying that would surely end in another broken nose and that wasn't something she wanted to deal with right now. Not on top of everything else._

“ _Where?” Bruce asks, sealing up the cracks at the edges. The change is like watching Medusa turn someone to stone. “Which universe?”_

_Pru snorts. “What, like you think I have the barcode or something?”_

_It takes her almost as long as it does for Bruce to look down at the phone still clutched in his hand._

“ _Yeah,” the man says, face like a closed fist of determination. “Something like that.”_

_Oh boy._

* * *

The Batcave, when they arrive, is as dark and gloomy as ever. The dampness clings to the musty air, stale on the tip of Tim's tongue, just the way he remembers. Water seeps from the cave walls, rivulets silently trickling out, forming the stalagmites and stalactites within the deeper recesses. Echoes of restless bats further off only just reach their ears―a sound synonymous with adrenaline, night patrols and sore, aching muscles riddled with exhaustion. Despite the fact that this isn't even his universe, a pang of heart-wrenching nostalgia rips through him at the sight of all the memorabilia. The looming dinosaur―different from the one Damian once pushed him off, though the same in all the ways that matter―surveys the entire cave with unmoving eyes. The giant penny stands tall and proud, and the Joker's card sits slightly obscured behind it. A thick layer of dust rests on everything; the penny is not as shiny here as Tim knows it is in the cave native to his universe. Alfred doesn't come down here anymore, it seems. Although Tim can hardly blame him for that.

Then, an out of place thing catches Tim's attention, but for a moment he cannot work out why. After a beat, it hits him.

Two glass cases resembling coffins stand side by side. It's a deviance from his own world, where he knows there to be just one. In one is Jason's Robin uniform, in the other―that's _his_ Robin uniform.

_No, it's not._ Tim shakes his head, an effort at clearing out his thoughts. Not _his_ uniform _. A dead Robin's uniform._ A uniform belonging to a Tim long gone.

“The cave,” says Bruce, as though it's not obvious, clapping him on the shoulder with one hand and gesturing widely with the other as he moves to step past. “What remains of it, anyway.”

Though this is not the Batcave of his universe, it still feels painfully like _home._ Albeit, one he never intends to return to, not even when he _does_ return to his own universe. Because if there's one thing he's sure of, it's that this Bruce will realise he doesn't actually _want_ Tim.

Tim is comfortable here in the cave in way he has never been anywhere else―though given Bruce's stiff movements and ramrod posture, the feeling isn't mutual. It figures. While a sanctuary to Tim, this place stands now as nothing more than a memorial to Bruce's failures. A crypt to remind him of ghosts.

He misses it, but in his own universe, it's Damian's now―and the Batcave had truthfully never been big enough for both of them.

Out of nowhere, a figure steps from behind a stalagmite pillar.

The tall and muscular build is dreadfully familiar even before Tim's eyes reach the man's face. The unexpectedness of him almost scares Tim enough to send him scampering backwards, behind a cape that Bruce no longer wears. It's a stupid instinct.

“Exactly where the fuck have _you_ been this whole time―?” snarls the voice, sharp as it splits the air like lightning. The venom within it instantly strips away Tim's higher, more logical brain as the name clicks into his mind.

_Jason_. A dead Robin brought back to life again.

Supernatural green dances wildly in Jason's wrathful expression, a deadly glare directed at Bruce that reminds Tim of acid vats and moonlit glinting off serrated knives. A shudder, like that of a thousand tiny needles, scurries up and back down his spine again.

In Tim's native universe, the two of them had slowly been closing the gap. Inch by inch they'd circled around each other, like two big cats treading at a snail's pace. Although some days it had felt more like Tim taking a step forward while Jason took two back, they'd certainly been moving in the right direction. However, to say the process had been slow would have been an understatement. Like slides to a projector, it didn’t make a difference how many friendly encounters Jason had slotted between them, Tim had never been able to stop feeling as though he were standing on the precarious edge of a knife.

Part of him―a part Tim has tried to push down and bury―is still utterly terrified of Jason. Both this one and the one in his own universe.

It takes longer than expected, but not as long as Tim hoped, for Jason's eyes to land on him. The difference is immediate. Jason blanches to an almost unnatural shade of alabaster as he stills, heated fury dying away to be replaced with… _something else_. The colour in his cheeks bleaches out, along with the slight tinge of red in his chewed lip, apparent worry and concern for Bruce's whereabouts given away by the anxious tic Jason isn't even cognizant of.

Tim can see the enormous amount of effort it takes for him to tear his eyes back to Bruce, confusion and a great many other emotions swimming in them.

Jason's brow furrows and his mouth opens as his eyes dart back to Tim quickly, but whatever words he plans to say are never spoken, cut off and interrupted by a second familiar voice.

“You find him yet, Jay?”

Dick rounds the corner, looking mostly relaxed, with Damian trailing him, lagging slightly behind.

The sight of them, so familiar and unchanged from his own universe, forces a hitch in his breath. It is odd, seeing them like this―not a single one in costume.

Dick's reaction, like Jason's, is immediate and quietly violent in its intensity. Damian's expression morphs from relaxed to confused all the way through to defensive at the sight of him and Tim is treated to the delightfully familiar sight of Damian drawing a knife.

“ _Father,”_ the young boy cries loudly, the shout almost loud enough to pierce the back of the cave where the bats are resting. “There is an intruder!”

To the other three occupants of the cave, Damian's attack seems unexpected. The young boy moves swiftly, running straight for Tim with knife brandished in a backwards hold. To Tim, this is a dance―his tango.

Damian's name leaves all three mouths, horror and shock splitting the air as Bruce turns to place himself between the two of them. Dick lunges for Damian and misses. Although, the attempt on his life by this Damian is almost pitiful, Tim muses as he twists artfully out the way. This child is nowhere near as well trained as the boy-turned-weapon in his own universe. _This_ Damian is sloppy and hasn't been plotting Tim's death for the past two years. This Damian has never held the mantle of _Robin._

A strangled bark of laughter nearly bursts forth from Tim's lips at how ridiculously easy it is to disarm him.

Dick is upon him first, reaching around Damian's torso to pull him back, a mistrustful, almost angry glare landing on Tim. It's not an unusual expression, Tim suddenly realises. It's the one his own Dick used to give as he told Tim not to hurt Damian, though the kid was making another attempt on his life. Somehow, so much was excused for Damian. In retrospect, he had almost been glad to finally let go of the one tie grounding him to Gotham. It had sealed the idea of looking for Bruce as a good one.

Dick's glare on him doesn't last long, though. It swivels straight to Bruce the second his grip on Damian is secure.

“What the hell is this?” Dick's tone is glacial. Tim is almost surprised by how unmoved Bruce appears to be by it. He doesn't know why.

Slowly, Bruce moves, coming close enough to wrap an arm around Tim's shoulders.

“This is Tim.”

Jason practically growls, shock thrown off like a too-warm blanket in summertime.

The accusatory finger thrown at Tim holds the power of a gun to his head and his feet stick to the floor like they've been fixed there with super-glue.

“That is not Tim!” he barks, wild like fire and the raging sea.

Tim tries not to shrink against Bruce's side, but it's been so long since anyone touched him like this, he almost can't help himself. _Pru would say he was touch starved._ Maybe Bruce doesn't notice it, but his fingers curl ever so slightly around Tim's arm.

“Tim is _dead,_ Bruce,” Jason says, voice breaking, crumpling into a grief-filled whisper on the penultimate word as his hand falls limply to his side.

For a beat, silence rings throughout the cave. No one dares talk or move. It's like they're all statues, frozen in time, stone gargoyles that haunt the rooftops of the buildings in down-town Gotham.

Then, the moment is over. Whatever second of pain Jason feels, it passes, and his rage returns.

“Whoever that is, it is _not_ our Tim,” he spits, looking squarely at Tim.

Bruce nods.

“You're right,” he agrees. “This is _not_ our Tim. This Tim is from a different universe.”

Somehow, impossibly, that makes Dick look all the more horrified.

Tim gives a little wave. It feels childish and almost moot, given the dark air about the room. A miasma of mistrust and old anger.

“You _stole_ another universe's _Tim?”_ he says, hushed, through almost unmoving lips.

Bruce snorts and it feels kind of tactless for the moment, Tim thinks. Given the affronted and disturbed looks on their faces, Dick and Jason seem to agree.

“I didn't _steal_ him,” Bruce counters with a roll of his eyes. “I asked. Tim agreed.”

The condemnation in Jason's face returns, more strongly than before.

“What are you going to do when his universe's family comes looking for him, huh?” he grits out, just barely holding back the fury behind gritted teeth.

Tim bites the inside of his cheek and clamps down on the very idea. _No one from his universe is coming to look for him._

“We'll… cross that bridge when we must,” Bruce replies, albeit uneasily. It's like they all think someone will notice Tim's absence, a notion time will disabuse. _If Tim is even here that long._

Still, it is hard not to blame this Jason for those words, this Jason who has clearly grieved over this universe's dead Timothy Drake― _and what happened there, exactly? Tim would like to know_. In Jason's mind, Tim has to figure, every universe would want their Tim Drake. It would probably never occur to him that this wasn't the case. Tim's Dick Grayson had all but kicked him out, his Jason Todd and Damian Wayne had tried to murder him _multiple times_ , and the man he still longs to love him like a son seemingly doesn't care whether he is there or not. In this universe it seems that Tim Drake had been beloved, but in his own, Tim is just a tool, another batarang in Batman's belt.

“Regardless of all that, what did you think bringing him here would achieve?” Jason continues. “It's not like he's _our_ Tim! We don't _know_ him.”

Bruce shuffles from one foot to the other. A tell. _Bruce is nervous._

“He is still Tim.”

Jason scoffs.

“Yeah, right. I don't know what game you think you're playing, Bruce, but that is _not_ Tim.”

Dick looks just as appalled.

“Come on Dick,” Jason says, tugging at a sleeve with one hand, already half-turned. “Let's go.”

To their retreating backs, Bruce just sighs. Over his shoulder he shoots an apologetic glance at Tim.

“I'm sorry about them,” he says, looking defeated. “I'll go have a chat with them.”

“It's fine,” Tim replies with a shrug. “I'm… used to it.”

Bruce's brow pinches, like he's trying really hard to figure out a sudoku puzzle or a crossword. Like Tim is a riddle, which he _really, really is not._ And then, although the look doesn't completely disappear, it smooths away as he claps Tim on the shoulder once more and then turns to go.

“Damian, don't stab him again,” Bruce warns as he passes by the only brother left in the cave. Then, with a softer tone, “If Tim is hungry, take him to the kitchen. Otherwise, you can just show him up to his room.”

The retreating sound of his footsteps, growing softer with distance, eventually disappears.

Tim pins Damian with a warning glare of his own and then shuffles off to the junk box by the side of the workshop, very aware of the young boy watching him the whole way. God, he hopes the Tim of this universe also made the same emergency chip.

“What are you doing?” Damian asks, folding his arms across his chest.

The junk box is full, another thing the two universes share. In Tim's universe, Bruce would fill it full of broken things; snapped grapple-lines, smashed communicators, shattered utility belts. Once, Tim had spent hours time rifling through it and mending what he could. It had been a way to kill time, back when patrol was over for the night but Tim still couldn't bring himself to go home to his empty house on the hill.

_This_ box of junk has not yet seen Tim's hands, so he can only hope that the little black container he had once dumped at the bottom in his own universe is here also. After a moment of digging, mindful of the jagged, metal edges of the rusty, broken things, he finally comes across an old box. Flat, rectangular and familiar. _This is it._

The dust is thick over the old parts and Tim wipes away the grime on the case before opening it to reveal the several tiny phone parts inside. The initials _TD_ are carved into the underside of each chip.

Tim nearly sighs with relief as he finally finds the one he's looking for. Grasping it firmly between his forefinger and thumb as he pulls the thing―no bigger than the fingernail on his pinky―out of its safekeeping box.

“Look,” he answers, not bothering to turn around to address the young boy standing to the wayside. “It seems pretty clear that you already don't like me―” a _fter all, it was Damian. What had Tim been expecting? Why, on a whim, had he agreed to this? Nothing would be different here. It would all be the same shit, different universe. No, he knew why. It was for Kon and Bart._ “―so why don't you go harass somebody else.”

Damian tuts imperiously. That, at least, is very familiar.

“Are you hungry?”

Tim nearly rolls his eyes as he slides his gaze over to the boy, simultaneously pulling his phone out of his back pocket with his free hand.

“What?"

The boy scowls.

“Are you hungry?”

“Don't worry, Damian,” he says. “I know where the kitchen is.”

Damian only tuts once more. Apparently no qualms about rolling his eyes.

“That is not what I asked. Father instructed that I make sure you are not hungry and that I show you to your room,” he asserts bossily, making an attempt at looming over Tim. “So that is what I shall do.”

_Hungry, huh._ When _was_ the last time he ate?

Peeling away the back casing of his phone, he slides the old chip in his hand inside, booting it up again. Tim can only pray that the dusty, old component still works, but it feels good knowing that the Tim Drake of this universe was also a paranoid child, mapping contingencies for every conceivable worst case scenario.

“No,” he answers. “I'm not hungry.”

The phone screen flashes blue and then starts up normally, a balloon worth of held air in his lungs deflating with relief. Good, it works. Quickly, Tim turns the phone off again to conserve battery; he doesn't know when he'll be able to charge it again.

Tim expects that to be it. But―

“Thirsty?” Damian asks. “Do you require a drink?”

Once again he is about to decline, but then―“Coffee? Do you have coffee?”

“It is half past midnight,” Damian says, sounding surprised.

“So that's… a yes to the coffee?”

Once more, just for good measure, Damian rolls his eyes.

Making a gesture to follow, the boy leads the way up and out of the Batcave, taking them into the kitchen. Though it's exactly where Tim knew it would be, he trails behind out of politeness until they reach the room, whereupon he makes a beeline past and―“Where is the espresso machine?”

Tim whirls around again, eyes fixed on Damian, who just snorts and reaches for the pantry.

“We don't have one,” he says, pulling out a jar of instant coffee. “Just instant coffee here.”

Tim is appalled.

“Who drinks _instant coffee?”_ he bemoans loudly. “Instant coffee tastes like _sadness!”_

Damian huffs. “Well, that is all we have. Do you want it or not?”

Tim sighs, sourly, under his breath. “Yes.”

Damian passes him the jar and Tim wanders over to the cupboard to pull out a mug, holding it beneath the tap and filling it with water from under the faucet. Next, he shoves the mug of water into the microwave, which earns him a face from Damian.

“We _have_ an electric kettle,” he declares with a glare. “Or a stove-top one, if you prefer?”

The microwave beeps, signalling a boiling cup of water.

“My way is faster,” he counters, moving back to the bench where the instant coffee sits.

After retrieving a spoon from the silverware drawer, Tim adds three hefty heaps of instant coffee to his mug of hot water while Damian just squints his eyes.

“Why do you do it like that?” he asks, sounding disgusted, yet fascinated as he looks on.

“Like what?” Tim asks, stirring the powder so it dissolves.

“Add the powder after boiling the water? Does it not just stick the sides and create a weaker mess?”

“You drink coffee?” he asks, looking up in surprise. Tim never thought he'd encounter a universe where Bruce allowed Damian to drink coffee.

“No,” the boy sniffs in return. “Though I have tried it once or twice at Richard's request. It was not to my taste.”

“More for me, then,” Tim smirks, depositing the spoon into the sink and wrapping his hands around a warm, fresh mug of coffee. Well, as fresh as instant coffee could be.

Damian slides onto a breakfast bar stool as Tim simultaneously reclines against the sink counter, sipping at his coffee in silence.

“So you are the famed Timothy,” the boy says quietly, after a beat. The words are almost reverent, like he had not _meant_ to say them out loud.

Tim snorts and nearly gets a mouthful of coffee up his nose.

“I guess that's one way of putting it,” he replies, wiping away the dribble of coffee that somehow slid out of his mouth. “Although, I'm not really your Tim. Jason and Dick seem pretty intent on keeping it that way too. Which is fine, I'll just set up shop in this universe and do my own thing for a while.” _He leaves out the part where he doesn't intend to stay for very long, just until he can convince Conner and Bart that they're better of_ _f_ _with him in his universe._

Damian braces his elbows against the counter-top.

“Father would not let you,” he says, though the words pitch up at the end, almost making it sound like a question.

“I fail to see how he can stop me,” Tim shrugs before taking a long slurp. “Besides, as previously stated, I'm not this Bruce's Tim. I'm not _his_ Tim. Dick and Jason want me gone and I know Bruce will choose them over me, they're his kids after all, as are you. To be honest, I wasn't _not_ expecting this. I agreed to come here for… other reasons.”

“If you're so intent on leaving already, why not simply return to your own universe? Will your own family not miss you there anyway?”

Tim nearly laughs.

“Not to give you anything else to hold over my head,” he begins with a bitter smirk. “But no. They'll hardly notice I'm gone.”

“Why are you here, then?” The boy continues, peppering him with yet another question. “If you never believed Father to want you to stay, why _did_ you come here?”

After another long sip of coffee, Tim takes some time to really _look_ at this Damian―so much more grown-up than the one in his universe and yet, untrained and undisciplined.

“I believe _he_ wants me to stay,” Tim nods, this time forgoing that it's Dick and Jason who don't. “I was just… prepared to be like air―move without resistance and all that. I didn't know _what_ I was walking into when I agreed to come here.”

Damian's eyes narrow.

“You are nothing like the Timothy Drake I have heard about,” he says. “You are… overly cynical.”

This time, a laugh does bubble up out of him, but it's mirthless and cold.

“Time will do that,” he returns. “Maybe you should be thankful your Tim died before he turned into me. At least people here seem to have good memories of him.”

Damian's eyes drop to the kitchen counter a moment, flashing with sadness as they stare at nothing.

“I would not know,” he answers quietly after silence has stretched like sticky dough between them. “I… I did not meet him.”

“Hm?”

Damian looks up. A sadness in his gaze that is wiped away so quickly that Tim's not sure it was ever really there at all.

“Richard says he… he was a good son, a good brother and a good Robin,” the boy says, tracing an irregular pattern on the counter-top with an errant finger. “It is a shame I never got to know him, Richard thinks I would have liked him.”

Tim feels something sour curl inside him.

“Trust me,” he says, raising his mug once more. “The Damian Wayne and myself in my universe? We got on like a house on fire―though, the fire was an inferno and all the people inside were jumping out windows and running for their lives.”

Damian's brow furrows just slightly, creasing up in that way that makes it clearly apparent whose son he is. “Is that some sort of English idiom? Because it isn't a very good one.”

Tim throws back the rest of his coffee in one go.

“Yeah,” he agrees bitterly. “You're probably right.”

* * *

Only after Damian has shown him to his room does Tim turn his phone back on.

The room the younger boy led him to had undoubtedly belonged to a Timothy Drake. It is clean and tidy, but somehow Alfred has managed to keep it looking _lived_ in. Homework sits in neat piles on his study desk, an unfinished book, unmoved from the bedside table, still holds a bookmark perched between its page; he would sigh and shake his head at Bruce's way of mourning if he didn't already know _his_ version of battling through grief was a lot more self-destructive.

It is nothing like his room at the manor in his own universe―the same, unlived in space―because this is a child's room.

Nearly blinded by the bold numbers that flash up on the phone screen, _4:30am_ _,_ Tim rolls over on top of the bed covers and thumbs the screen until he finds his messages.

Pru's name sits unchanged at the top.

“ _Hey,”_ he says, lamely, shooting off a text and hoping the inter-dimensional phone chip actually still works. _“Bruce from another universe showed up. Dimension travel is crazy, Pru. I hope I can figure it out before I need to come back―and I am coming back by the way. Just gotta find my friends first. Sorry for ditching you.”_

A moment. Then, _“Jfc kid, do you sleep?”_

Tim smirks. Well, at least the chip still works.

“ _Keycard is under the doormat,”_ he types out. Then adds, _“I sleep. Sometimes.”_

Though parted between universes, Tim can almost hear her snort, picturing her nose scrunching up as she does it.

“ _Yeah okay, thanks,”_ she replies. _“And don't worry about ditching me―Bruce Willis and I have a lot of catching up to do.”_

“ _Die hard?”_ he questions.

“ _Of course. It might be a Christmas movie, but it's a good watch all year round.”_

Tim resists the urge to snigger as he types back, _“Die hard is not a Christmas movie.”_

“ _Yes it is and you know it.”_

“ _Just because something is set during the period of Christmas doesn't mean it's a_ Christmas _film.”_

Pru simply sends him an emoji face with a tongue sticking out. It's a minute before another text comes through.

“ _So how long are you going to be over there for?”_ she asks, and if Tim didn't know her better, he'd say she was concerned.

Though she can't see him, Tim gives a weird, jerky shrug anyway.

“ _Don't know. Shockingly, I've already worn out my welcome with Jason and Dick, but I kind of expected it to be honest. This Bruce, although clearly still grieving over his dead son, seems as though he still has about the same amount of emotional forethought as the B in my―your―universe does.”_

“ _That sucks, but also, I was asking for purely selfish reasons. I gotta throw a house-party while the parents are away, right?”_

“ _Admit it,”_ he texts back with a grin spreading his cheeks. _“You just wanted to hang out with me.”_

“ _You're delusional,”_ she responds. _“But I guess I already knew that given that you dress up like a bird every night and have the self-preservation skills of a lemming.”_

Tim gives himself a moment to delight in the amusing mental image that brings, then responds seriously, _“I don't know how long I'll be here, Pru. For as long as it takes for me to find my friends, I guess.”_

Once again, Tim can see her face in his head, the pitying sigh she gives him as he reads through her next message.

“ _You must really miss them,”_ she says. _“Most people wouldn't cross universes just to find versions of their friends that weren't dead.”_

Huh. Maybe he's not so different to the Bruce of this universe after all. _“Yeah,”_ he returns. _“They were like my family―or, at least what I imagine a family without a ton of mental disorders would be like.”_

“ _Trust me,”_ Pru says. _“Anyone dressing up in spandex most definitely has some issues.”_

Behind him, Tim hears the bedroom door creak open. Thinking it to be Bruce, come to check on him, or Damian―because this version of him is kind of weird―Tim stuffs the phone into his pillowcase and sits up just in time to discover that neither guess is correct.

It's Jason.

“You don't belong here,” the man growls, slinking into the room with an animalistic snarl. “You're not Tim.”

Like a world built on soft clay, everything in Tim's vision falls away until it's just the narrow field of him and Jason. The panicked cry that wants to burst free from his lips is tucked away tightly as Red Robin boils to the surface.

_Blood dribbles down his neck from where the knife is pressed firm; he can feel the red hot moisture sliding down over the skin above his Adam's apple. Red Hood's shadow casts long over his own._

_Tim wants Bruce, he wants Bruce! But Bruce isn't here._

“It's time for you to go,” says Jason, folding his arms across his chest.

_Not without a fight,_ Tim thinks. _Never without a fight._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pru goes with the Wayne's.
> 
> Tim does the opposite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the amazing comments this week, everyone. They really were shining stars in an otherwise abysmal week. In other news, an update: no new chapter next week folks. I'll be back in two weeks time. And a huge thanks to GraysonsFlight for once again being an amazing beta! ( ˘ ³˘)~♥
> 
> Enjoy!

_Bruce Wayne cradles Pru's phone in one hand as though it is the most precious object in the universe; maybe to him it is. Pru knows she's not getting back her burner phone anyhow. That's a given. She's not an expert in multi-dimensional travel, but even she knows that if Tim is still texting her across universes, it means they can track his phone. Although how on earth the man plans on actually_ getting _to another universe remains a mystery._

“ _I need to make a phone call,” the man says unexpectedly, a moment later, to no one in particular. He sweeps from the room as though he already wears the heavy cape of Batman upon his shoulders, though presently it is metaphorical. A single word falls off his lips as he departs: “Zatanna.”_

_Pru doesn't know what that means, but the other boys in the room all nod knowingly._

_Maybe she misjudged him. The thought slides through her like a wave washing upon a shore, dredging up feelings from the deep and depositing the flotsam and jetsam on the beach. Maybe Bruce Wayne cares more than he lets on_ _―_ _although Pru still finds that a poor excuse for his behaviour. A small part of her finds comfort in_ _knowing it wasn't_ just _Tim he forsook for nine_ _months; that it had been all of his children he'd let down_ _._ _Another part of her just wants to shake her head in disgust. Pru doesn't want to be a mother, but if by chance a child landed in her lap, she wouldn't abandon them._

_Loving children just isn't enough._

_Pru knows that well. Family isn't blood. And despite what Tim seems to think, it's not just what is written on paper either._

“ _Well,” says the one previously identified as Jason, throwing his hands on his hips with a huff. “What are we going to do with Miss Assassin over here?”_

_Pru draws her attention back to the conversation in the room, dismissing the old man's poor parenting from her mind._

_Slightly shorter, but definitely older―Dick―answers: “Leave her here? If she was a threat, would we not know by now?”_

_The youngest seems to take issue with that. Pru gets the pleasure of watching the Demon Head's grandson run through every horrified emotion his face is capable of._

“ _Threat?” he hisses, eyes narrowing. “Of course she's a threat, Richard! She's an assassin!”_

_It almost amuses her._ Almost _._

“ _I'm not an assassin anymore,” she interjects,_ _trying not to do so_ _through gritted teeth._ _Not that they can hear her over the indigent, disgusted way the young boy barrels on._

“ _You're a fool if you think she isn't a threat.” He shoots icy glances between Pru and the other two left in the room. “She knows our identities.”_

_Pru snorts, rolling her eyes as one hand comes up to fiddle with the back of her earring, adjusting it. “I knew your identities a long time ago, kid. Ra's is meticulous. You should know.”_

_Apparently this does not assuage the child like she thought it would. Instead, he glares at the other two with a look that reads: “See?”_

_Dick sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand while flapping the other. Pru thinks he's probably younger than he appears in the moment, but vigilante life hasn't done him any favours._

“ _Fine,” he sighs wearily, clearly experienced in knowing which battles to pick and which hills not to die on. “She can come with us to the Hall of Justice. After that, we'll figure something else out.”_

_Jason looks surprised. “You're going to allow her into Justice League HQ?” he ejects, incredulous._

“ _You got a better idea?” the eldest boy snaps, glaring frustration, to which Jason closes his hanging jaw and scowls._

_None of them look happy, but then again, Pru isn't exactly thrilled with the idea either. It's going to be another long day._

_The whole experience is weird and somewhat tense for Pru._

_The Wayne's change into their vigilante uniforms on-board the Batplane_ _and_ _t_ _hey emerge as completely different people,_ _strapping on more than just kevlar_ _._ _All of them are_ _m_ _ore focused, surer of themselves_ _―_ _t_ _he way she knows Tim is whenever he wears his Red Robin uniform._ _The chasm between all of their persona's is astonishing_ _―_ _they compartmentalise. Pru knows compartmentalising can be useful, but she wonders if Batman in particular relies upon it too much_ _;_ _she doesn't have to look too deep to see the similarities between what is the man and what is_ meant _to be the myth._ _It is honestly a wonder that all of Gotham hasn't figured out Bruce Wayne is Batman, given how much one personality slips through into the other._

_And Pru thought her family was fucked up._

_They don't talk for the entire journey. The little Robin upfront falls asleep and then, upon waking, pretends as though it never happened. It's cute. Or, it would be, if the child wasn't a trained assassin._ _Ra's really did this kid dirty. At least she had a choice; the youngest Wayne, not so much._ _Well, at least she can appreciate that the plane has cup-holders._

_The sun is well into the sky by the time they arrive at their destination. It's still early, but there are more people about the streets now. Outside her window, Pru can't help but think they look a little like ants._

_The plane flies into the mouth of a cave, an opening in a cliff-side over the open ocean. It is some precision flying and she'd spare a moment to be impressed if she wasn't already being escorted off the plane by a particularly grumpy Red Hood._

_The moment her combat boots hit the tarmac, she's being marched along behind Nightwing and in front of Red Hood, with Robin scowling at her from her left and Batman striding purposefully up front._

_To think she only came to Gotham to hide from Ra's…_

_The Hall of Justice is just as much of a labyrinth as the fortress in which League of Assassin's base was. Pru struggles to keep track of every twist and turn; every wall and floor looks the same. She suddenly feels as though she's playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey―spun around so many times she's not sure which way is up anymore._

_However, when the maze of halls and mirrors gives way, she finds herself in a large room with ceilings vaulting upwards in the shape of an upside down 'V'. To her right side sits a long dining table and a spacious kitchen. To her left, a sunken lounge and another long hallway. There are several closed doors off to the sides as well, but Pru doesn't bother dwelling on what might be behind them._

_In the room, there are already several people gathered. However, not all of them are human, she notes. The green man with the unblinking red eyes particularly creeps her out, so she only stares long enough to flick a glare cold enough to freeze the Mojave desert._

_A man in blue with a distinctive black curl of hair upon his forehead is the first to approach, reaching toward Batman for a handshake. He's twice as tall as Pru, three times as wide, and she has no doubt he could snap her like a twig._

“ _Batman,” he greets, smile wide as he grips the other man's forearm briefly._

“ _Superman,” is the almost guttural reply. “It's… it's good that you're here.”_

_Curiously, the small admission seems to startle the larger man._ Interesting _, Pru thinks amusedly, glancing around at the somewhat surprised expressions upon the faces of the other vigilantes._ Batman is well-liked, but not known for emotion, it seems. _Or, at least that is how it presently appears._

“ _I got your message,” says Superman with a small frown crinkling the middle of his brow. “I got here as fast as I could. Is everything alright?”_

_Batman ignores the utterance of concern in favour of: “Is Zatanna here yet? I must speak with her, it's urgent.”_

_If Superman is surprised or offended by being ignored, it doesn't show._

“ _She's on her way,” he returns, frown deepening. “What is this all about, Batman?”_

_The long pause draws out more confusion from Superman, until: “…it's Tim.”_

_Multiple emotions flicker across the other man's face, but eventually he settles on surprised, but compounded by worry._

“ _Tim?” he asks, inching forward. “What happened? Where is he―?”_

“ _He's gone,” interrupts Batman, stalling with a raised palm. “Kidnapped.” It's an orderly report―he wastes no time―but Pru can hear Bruce Wayne beneath all the layers of emotional repression. The man is worried. Pru wonders if he is allowed that right at this point, but she doesn't vocalise her displeasure. There will be time enough for that later._

_Pru scoffs quietly, although it's apparently loud enough to draw Superman's attention. All eyes look to her. In return, she simply rolls her own, simultaneously folding her arms across her chest._

“ _What?” she snaps. “That's just not how I would have put it.”_

_Superman quirks a curious eyebrow in her direction. “Who is this?”_

_Nobody moves to speak,_ _t_ _hey simply exchange glances_ _like conversations_ _between one another until Pru steps forward on her own._

“ _Prudence, but you can call me Pru,” she says, holding out a hand for the big, blue man to take, which he does. The action is exceedingly gentle, which only confirms to her that the man could kill with less effort than it would take her to lift a finger. “I'm a friend of T―Red Robin.”_

_Red Hood shoots her an irritated look, which leaves her feeling both offended and immensely smug all at once._

_The man smiles widely._

“ _Superman,” he says, friendly and warm. “Pleasure, Miss Prudence.”_

_The moment the handshake is released, Pru says, “Despite what Dark and Brooding over here says, he wasn't kidnapped. He went of his own volition.”_

_Robin opens his mouth and looks very much like he wants to say something to that, but the scowl and slight shake of the head that Red Hood sends swiftly dissuades him from the idea._

_Batman just looks pained._

_Attempting to de-code this family's interactions is like trying to solve a Rubik's cube―every time she thinks she has solved it, another unexpected colour pops up out of nowhere. It's mildly infuriating._

_Superman turns to Batman and there's an emotional vulnerability behind the cowl that surprises Pru when she dares to look a little deeper._

“ _Is that true?” Superman asks, looking concerned; although she can't tell if the worry is for Bruce or for Tim himself._

_Batman shakes his head, but it's not a true denial, there's too much hurt and confusion mixed into it._

“ _I… I don't know, I…” he eventually says, glancing around at his remaining sons with pain lancing his expression, piercing through the cracking, crumbling façade. He never finishes the sentence, but he doesn't have to. Pru knows what he wants to say, she just hopes that when the time comes, he'll have the courage to actually say it._

_Time seems suspended until Superman rests a palm upon Batman's caped shoulder, expression softening._

“ _I understand,” he says. And it looks like he really means it._

* * *

_Tim can feel his blood rushing past his ears. It's over. Jason's punches just keep coming; Tim's left eye is puffy and swollen, his jaw feels like it just had a run in with Harley Quinn's favourite mallet. His chest heaves for air while the older boy pins him easily to the ground with his own weight._

Suddenly, the room is so cold it feels like ice. With every breath Tim draws, each shallower than the last, he expects to see it turn to hot mist and dissipate around him. It never does, not even as his limbs stiffen against the arctic chill sweeping through his veins. Tim can't stop. There's no time for stopping, he knows the effects of hypothermia on the body. How perching on Gotham rooftops, while buffered only slightly by water tanks and chimney flashings during the sleeting rain, can run one's fingers so raw they burn.

_When Tim was small, chasing Batman and Robin's adventures, he'd never known them to stay out during weather this harsh. Batman had changed, he knew that. It was why he was here, by Bruce's unmoving side. Tim longed to press just a little closer, to shield himself from the rain, but he didn't._ _Occasionally, when Tim had been there to see Bruce and Jason on winter patrols, he would catch Jason snuggling against Bruce's chest, the billowing black cape wrapped around them with just Robin's tiny head peeping out below Batman's_ _. Bruce had never offered that to him, though. Tim's suit was thicker, he supposed, his cape longer. It would ensure the heat stayed in. Besides, as much as he wanted to occupy a place in the man's heart, he never would. Tim was just the kid on the hill._ _H_ _e wasn't Bruce's son, not like Dick was and Jason had been. Not like Damian would later become._

The very tips of his fingers are white and numb, pins and needles shoot sporadically down to his elbow. The world is small. Just Tim and Jason. _Jason, the one who wants him gone. The one who wants him dead just because he dared to be there for Bruce. Because he dared to fill a rol_ _e_ _rather than_ _watch the consequences play out as Bruce burned Gotham to the ground in grief._

It's now or never. Jason is so much bigger than him, a behemoth of a human in comparison to Tim. It would be all too easy for the man to crumple him like tinfoil.

By all accounts, Tim _should_ be dead by now. Except it isn't a miracle keeping him alive, or some wish upon a star. It's the fact that he's strapped on survival skills like body armour. Where anyone else might consider seeing a therapist for an over-active acute stress response, for him it's the difference between surviving a deliberately slashed grapple-line or becoming a skid mark against the sidewalk.

There's no hesitation this time, no deliberating as Tim snarls ferociously, a cornered feral animal. _He doesn't want to be a punching bag anymore._

Jason barks out a startled shout as Tim's frozen, stiff muscles uncurl and burn with familiar adrenaline. Words tumble out along with the noise of surprise, but Tim doesn't hear or understand a single syllable.

The world is spinning too fast, abnormal in its axis. As though he's been flung out into space and accidentally landed on Pluto, submerged in darkness.

Tim's focus narrows down to the hall.

Out there is room to move, out there he can run. Jason is blocking the doorway, but he's not expecting an attack. _Good, that's good, less time for him to reach for a knife or a gun. Tim sure hated recovering from that last bullet in his back._

“Fucking hell, kid,” Jason yelps, making a grab for him. There's significant distress in his voice, but Tim hardly notices.

The swipe misses, but he doesn't pause. Going for a knee, Jason just barely dodges the attack with a huff of concentration and a slight look of fear. Then, like a shot, Tim is out of the dark room and falling into the light flooding the hall.

Before he makes it across the threshold, however, two arms encircle him from behind and tackle him to the floor.

“Would you – _stop – guh –_ fighting me?!”

_As if Tim would ever do that. To stop fighting was to die. To give up was to give in. Jason would take advantage of that, he always had. Every outstretched hand was cut off at the wrist. It didn't matter how many times they worked a case together, putting trust in Jason was still an impossible thing to do._

After a vicious bite to Jason's forearm elicits a shout, but no release, Tim goes for a kick to the groin, twisting and writhing in the smothering grip. It isn't pretty or graceful, but it lands. Jason seizes up in pain and doubles over, which gives Tim enough time to wiggle out from underneath him as Jason just barely manages not to completely curl up into the fetal position.

Tim's breath is coming too hard and too fast, he knows that, distantly. _A panic attack_ , says his higher brain. _Obviously,_ says his body, refusing to cooperate. _Ridiculous,_ says the faint whisper of Batman in the back of his mind. _If you can't handle this you'll never handle_ _being Robin_ _._

Tim had never been suited to be a Robin and he had known that from the get go; he had become Robin for the wrong reasons, _unworthy_ reasons. Being Bruce's emotional crutch should never have been his mission statement, but Tim had been too young to know any better. Tim had wanted to _help_ the city's protector. In his mind, it had been okay for Tim to bow, bend and break, because Batman _needed_ a Robin. Only, the realisation that he'd already been broken _before_ he inserted himself into Bruce's life had been something to come _after_.

The facts were that Tim was just as fundamentally broken as Batman, perhaps even more so. Maybe that was the reason he had made such an awful, replaceable Robin―because it was impossible for two broken people to lean on each other. One must inevitably snap under the strain.

Bolting for the staircase, he doesn't make it more than three steps before something heavy smacks the back of his head. It shatters on impact and Tim's face greets the floor with another friendly _hello._ A vase. It's not enough to knock him out, but it is enough to disorient him. _Hopefully that wasn't one of Alfred's favourite French vases._

In some part of his panicking, sleep deprived brain, playing unconscious seems like a good idea.

Quickly, he slams his eyes shut against the blossoming hurt and the radiating pain around the back of his skull.

Jason is grunting from his injury and Tim can hear his uneven footfalls as he limps over. Even with his eyes closed, Tim can feel the older boy’s shadow as it falls over his prone body.It is almost impossible to keep breathing as Jason bends down and hoists him up, especially with his heart racing a million miles an hour. A quick peek through eyelashes reveals Jason is carrying him somewhere, cradling Tim against his chest.

It isn't like there aren't hundreds of empty, disgusting apartments in Gotham that he can't turn into a temporary safe-house, Tim knows. The second the older ex-Robin sets him down, he will make a break for it. Jason is too strong to fight head on with the way Tim is now.

Initially, Tim believes they must be heading down to the cave, but the sound of a creaky old door being nudged open and the smell of a musty room with dusty old books hits his nose full force. Not the cave, then. The library.

Tim hears Dick's gasp first. Then a chair clattering to the ground, with Bruce's anxious growl rumbling through the room. “Jason, what have you―”

“Relax, Old Man,” he assures. “Must've hit him 'round the head too hard, he's just unconscious.” Playing possum in Jason's arms, the words go through Tim's frame like wind through a house made of twigs during a storm. “It was an accident.”

If the tone of his grunt is anything to go by, Bruce does not seem impressed.

“Your arm,” Dick points out, before Bruce can interject with anything else, plastering over whatever undercurrent of unease is melting into the walls of the room. “You're bleeding.”

Jason moves across the room and, for a moment, Tim thinks he is about to be dropped. However, he lands on something soft– _a couch?_ –and his head is lifted onto a soft surface, hands carding gently through his hair. Dick is brushing the oily bangs off his forehead. _Huh_.

“Yeah, little fucker _bit me,_ ” says Jason finally, hissing in pain, probably inspecting said bite wound Tim left him with. “Can you believe that?”

Bruce's voice is so soft when he speaks again, gentle in a way that Tim's own Bruce has never been.

“Let me take a look at your arm, Jay?” he says, although it's more of a question than a statement. Tim can't tell, but given the lack of protest, he assumes Jason nods.

There's a clattering noise followed by a grunt, wherein he assumes Bruce is retrieving the first aid kit from the top shelf of the bookcase that holds the ancient encyclopaedias. In his own universe, every room has one. He's not sure why he thought it would be any different here; maybe because Bruce had claimed to have ditched the cape and cowl?

“Where did you even _find_ this Tim,” Jason asks as feet shuffle across the carpet. “Apocalypse universe?”

Bruce's voice is closer when he speaks next, but there's an obvious note of pain in it that pauses the fingers running through Tim's hair.

“No,” he sighs, the lid of the first aid kit hitting the floor with a dead clunk. “I actually… I knew there had to be a Timothy Drake without a family out there _somewhere.”_

Dick's hands don't resume petting his hair again until after he says, “But… you let us believe he _had_ a family. A version of us in his own universe. What do you―what are you saying? He doesn't?”

“No, I―.” Bruce's voice halts, coming to a complete stop. Then he sighs again, frustration leaking into his tone this time. “I know you both think I didn't think this through,” he says, voice strong and determined as he begins anew. “But I did.”

“I thought to myself: if in our universe Tim really was… _is_ gone _,_ surely there had to be a universe out there where he wasn't. I scoured different time-lines, where the universes branched off. I searched and searched and… and, as far as I could tell, we were the only universe in which Tim… in which he was gone. I began to wonder, if our family had no Tim, surely there was a world―a universe out there―where Tim had no family.”

“You found one?” Dick pipes up, sounding surprised and sorrowful all at once. “A universe where Tim was without family?”

There is a long pause and the longer it goes on, the more tense the air in the room becomes.

“Yes,” says Bruce eventually, sounding highly uncomfortable. “And no.”

Jason snarls. “What do you mean, Old Man. You did or you didn't, which is it?”

“I found _this_ Tim all by himself,” Bruce answers, sadder than Tim had thought any Bruce _anywhere_ could. “There wasn't a single version of Tim that I came across before this one that wasn't, at the very least, _taken care of._ All of them were at least _loved_ _―_ they all had a place here, in the manor.

“Then, I came across _this_ Tim, all by himself in a penthouse in the middle of Gotham. At first I thought he really was on his own, but then, after a bit of digging I found out that wasn't the case. Tim was almost _estranged_ from us, I mean, _his version_ of us. I don't know what happened between them, but, I… I think this Tim has been through a lot.”

Dick hums quietly. It's a heavy, sorrowful noise. Then, quietly: “He does seem rather thin.”

“And wild,” Jason adds a moment later in a low grunt, probably gesturing to the bite-mark on his arm.

“I think,” Bruce says, “he needs help. _Our_ help. I'm not sure he wants it, or even knows that he clearly needs it.”

“Bruce,” Dick sighs, sounding resigned. Right now, Dick is a soldier on a battlefield, facing down his foe with resolute determination, but also with sorrow. “Tim… he can't stay, you _know_ that.”

Without his eyes open, it is impossible for Tim to assess the room and the swirling mix of emotions in it, but the tensions around him definitely shift.

The length of silence on Bruce's end is enough to embolden Dick to continue on.

“Our Tim is gone and he's not coming back,” Dick begins, voice soft, empathetic. It's the very same tone Tim remembers his version of Dick using to manipulate him. On most people it was enough to make them see the error of their ways and apologise, even if said apology had never originally been in the cards. “I thought… I thought you had accepted that.”

It was lucky, then, that Bruce was the one person in the world that Dick's manipulative machinations rarely had an effect on.

“This isn't about me―” Bruce returns, only to be interrupted by that same, sickeningly sympathetic voice.

“This _is_ about you,” Dick interjects, fingers running through Tim's hair again. The touch is so gentle that it nearly undoes him. It's been so long since Dick touched him like this. “This Tim was doing perfectly fine in his own universe until you came along and snatched him out of it.”

“No,” Bruce disagrees. “That's not true.”

The tiny huff that escapes Dick is the only indication of his annoyance and frustration. Tim doubts Bruce even hears it.

“It is. Because at least _this_ Tim is alive.”

_Wow, low blow Dick, geez._

It seems that Bruce too is stunned into silence.

Listening to Dick is like watching an accident in slow motion. Tim knows the windshield will break, but yet he can't stop watching as the horror unfolds. Or, in this case, listening to the shattering sound of Dick crushing Bruce's glass heart under his heel.

“Besides,” he says softly. Though sympathetic, it's sharp as a shard. “I can't help feeling that you know this is wrong as well, dishonouring Tim's memory like this. By _replacing_ him.”

Tim wonders if Dick has picked up a chunk of Bruce's glass heart from the floor and simply driven it straight through his back; Tim stops breathing. _Replacement, replacement, replacement,_ pounds in his head on repeat.

The exhale that escapes Bruce's mouth is the tell-tale sign Tim is looking for: Dick has won.

“You're… maybe you are right,” Bruce almost whispers, sounding so unlike the Bruce Tim knows; halting, shaky, and suddenly more unsure of himself than Tim has ever heard.

“I know you miss him, B,” Dick continues, pushing harder than before. “And I know you went to a lot of trouble to bring this Tim into our universe, but―” he pauses to draw in a shuddering breath through his teeth, “―he doesn't belong here.”

_Tim wants to die. It hurts, hearing Dick say these things._ Though he _knows_ it's not _his_ Dick saying these things, his heart still curls around the words anyway, folding them up like little sheets of origami and neatly slotting them into the already cracked places inside.

“Dickie might be right, Old Man,” Jason pitches in, lending more weight. “The fact of the matter is that we all know that you don't really want just _any_ version of Tim you can get your hands on. You want the Tim you lost.”

“You can't just plop another version of himself in the same place and expect to have him back― _it's wrong, B.”_

“We miss him too,” Jason adds.

“And what of the family this Tim left behind?” Dick says, hammering another nail into Tim's coffin. “Estranged or not, they're still his family―I don't… I _can't_ believe they don't love and wouldn't miss him as much as we miss _our_ Tim.”

Bruce sounds wrecked when he speaks again. Utterly exhausted and emotionally compromised. “Very well,” he sighs, sounding wounded. Dick's strike a clean through and through. “I should… I will have a talk with him, in the morning.”

It _hurts_. Badly. Tim has to force himself to remember that this is not what he came for. He didn't come here for Bruce. Or anyone else in this house.

_Except it still fucking hurts to know he's not wanted here._

In his mind's eye, Tim sees Jason's firm nod. “You should.”

“Most definitely,” Dick agrees. “Because he doesn't belong here, B. He belongs in his own world.”

The fingers carding through his hair still feel nice, but as nice as the soft touch is, the words sting like somebody has made tiny little cuts all over his body and then drenched him in lemon juice. It seems that, no matter what universe he lands in, Tim doesn't belong. He never can and he never will.

Eventually, after resolutions are made and _“goodnights_ _”_ are said, Bruce takes him from Dick and carries him up to bed, tucking him in gently. The man's soft touch on his shoulder is achingly regretful. It's hard to resent him for his longing for a different version of himself, one that no longer exists.

Jason was right. Tim never should have come here. This was a mistake.

The phone still rests by the pillow, but texting Pru now will do him no good anyway. If anything, having her type of sympathy would make him feel worse, because as rough, ready, and violent as she is, Pru actually has a heart.

“I'm sorry, Tim,” Bruce whispers, raspy and hoarse, as though he's desperately trying not to cry. “I… I miss you.”

The words are a knife to the gut, because they're not _for_ him.

The amount of times he has dreamt of hearing something like that from his own Bruce is innumerable. From his own parents, even. That was all he ever wanted; someone to miss him. Tim doesn't dare ask for someone to claim to love him―that is beyond reasonable―but miss him? Surely there was _someone_ out there capable of that.

_Not every Tim,_ clucks his brain, pecking at his insecurities like a bird with a bug. _Just me._

Because that seemed to be the cardinal fact. He had heard what Bruce said: a _ll of them were at least loved_ _―t_ _hey all had a place here, in the manor. Then, I came across this Tim, all by himself in a penthouse in the middle of Gotham._

Not every Tim in every universe was utterly unlovable.

_Just him._

* * *

It is frighteningly late before the rest of the house falls asleep, nudging just past five-thirty.

Tim packs a bag, although it's not his favourite overnight bag, because the Tim in this universe never got around to purchasing it before he died. Everything in this room belongs to a wide-eyed thirteen year old with dreams the size of the moon. Finally, Tim thinks he understands what the Jason in his universe was talking about whenever he came to the manor―this was not simply a room anymore, this was a memorial.

The only bag Tim is able to find is, ironically, what was once his most treasured, prized possession: A backpack he bought from a vendor in central down-town Gotham when he was just a little kid. It is red, green and gold with a little, white Robin insignia stitched to the front. The backpack mysteriously disappeared when Damian showed up in his universe. Tim had hunted for it for _days_ , but in the end was forced to accept it was either permanently lost or Damian had burned the thing.

There's really not much here that he wants, so the bag remains light on his back. Tim almost doesn't even pack the camera sitting on Dead Tim's desk, but in the end he figures it might as well get some good use. Besides, if another Tim showed up in his universe, he would want his stuff to get as much use as possible before it went defunct from age. He slips the old skateboard under his arm as well.

The window slides open easily, letting the cool morning air inside along with the slightly damp soil smell of wet earth. Dawn is just over the horizon, Tim can see it's rays tickling the waters of the bay. The drop from the second floor to the grass is all muscle memory―he's done this so many times now, which is kind of funny. Once upon a time he would sneak between Drake Manor to Wayne Manor and back again; always forced to leave Batman and Robin and the only father figure who ever gave him a sideways smile. It's kind of amusing that Tim _wants_ to go now, before Bruce has the chance to tell him once more that he's not wanted here.

He had known this was coming. Fuck. He _had_. He'd known it from before he'd even arrived in this universe. And yet, somehow, it still hurts more than anything else ever could. Some part of him had clearly _hoped, prayed, and wished for this time to be different,_ but Tim had _known_.

There's no way to avoid the security cameras, there are simply more of them than there are in his own universe. Bruce is asleep, though. They all are. Maybe they'll see the footage in the morning, maybe they won't. It doesn't matter.

Tim slips over the garden wall behind the hydrangea. There are many ways to get off the Wayne family grounds unseen, but this one is the most familiar to him; it's the fastest way to Drake manor. The house his doppelganger grew up in is visible even from here. It sits alone, cold and empty. The gutter out the front has collapsed and nobody has repaired it. A tree halfway down the hill fell over in a storm, twisted branches heavy with leaves preventing it from having rolled too far. It is freakishly similar to his own childhood home, except in his own universe the tree took out half the shed roof.

The minute he hits the road, Tim sets the skateboard down. Coasting down to the city from here should be a breeze and maybe he'll make it in time to book a one-way red-eye ticket to San Francisco.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pru jumps universes. Batman meets Bruce Wayne. Tim is greeted by several unexpected surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm either early or late, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ you decide. CW for this chapter: Drugs mentioned briefly.
> 
> P.S. I'm probably going to be sticking to the once every two week updates for now. Fortunately, this means I will be 1. less stressed as a person, 2. more eager to give 'early' updates.
> 
> Once again, a huge thank you to [GraysonsFlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graysonsflight/pseuds/graysonsflight) my amazing beta for this story. You should definitely check out her current baby [Metus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24716917/chapters/59743372) if you have the time--chapter updates are weekly!

_A woman with flowing, ebony hair steps before Batman. She has dark, wide-set eyes and graceful, slender cheekbones, and is oddly dressed like a circus magician. She and Batman exchange a few short words outside of Pru's hearing and then, out of nowhere, the enchantress stretches out her hands and shouts a string of nonsensical words._

_Pru is unprepared._ She was not meant to be going with Batman and his brood into another universe, this was not her plan!

_Travelling into an entirely different universe via magic feels a little like being squashed flat and stretched too wide all at the same time, Pru thinks, in the short moment she is given before comprehensive thought becomes suddenly impossible. Overwhelming and conflicting sensations overtaking her as the magic twists and writhes in her muscles and bones._

_One minute she is standing in the JLA headquarters surrounded by heroes who had once, not long ago been―at best, annoyances,_ a _t worst, enemies―and the next, she is standing in a dank, dark cave that smelled of mildew._

_She had not been prepared to cross universes with Tim's insane family today. The fuckers. Why did she always get dragged into Tim's messes?_

_The landing is a rough one. Pru's ears scream at her from the moment they arrive, hornets buzzing in her head. Little black dots dance across her vision and she collapses to her knees, trying desperately to keep her last meal in her stomach. The nauseous sensation seems to be a collective experience, because the littlest vigilante definitely stumbles behind a small stalagmite to up-chuck his breakfast._

_When slowly, her hearing begins to filter in and the dangerous dark spots stop threatening to pull her under, the first thing she notices is the sound of a far-off alarm making a harsh whooping noise. It's rather unnerving, but while she doesn't recognise the cave, it is clear that her travel companions do._

_Next, the sound of running feet catches her attention. Because that's just what they need right now. Company._

_At first she believes that Tim's brothers―Dick and Jason―are already over their nausea and have leapt to their feet at the sound of the disquieting alarm. However, the double take she is forced to do dispels that notion immediately. Either she is more nauseous than she thought, or there are two sets of them in the room._

_T_ _o her left stands one surprised, but defensive pair in casual clothes._ _The two on her right however, are still struggling to their feet, are unsheathing their weapons fast than Pru can even blink_ _―_ _and they're armed to the teeth._ _Oddly, she notices, t_ _he youngest of Bruce Wayne's children, Damian, does not have a counterpart that she can see._

_Batman moves swiftly, like a dart he rushes past. Pru does not even notice he has moved until the rush of air trailing him brushes lightly past her face, the soft sound of a cape fluttering in her ears._

_It takes a minute for her mind to play catch-up._

_The fury in the air is palpable, it is written into the haggard lines on Batman's face as surely as if it were carved out of solid stone. The cowl does little to hide the hurt manifesting upon his features as he surges forward and seizes upon a new figure, the largest in the room. Once again, Pru has to blink to clear her vision, neck aching with whiplash due to the speed of which her head snaps left._

_There are two Bruce Wayne's in her sight._

_One dressed in cape and cowl, the other in casual clothes, although no less a Batman for it._

_Batman's left fist closes around the fabric of Bruce's sweater, bunching up it up by his neck, as his right hand draws back with precision and speed, elbow high―an arrow not yet fired._

_In the split second before the words tumble out of his face, Pru sees the desperation, grief and vulnerability in Batman's expression, clouded by righteous anger. And she has no doubt that this universe's Bruce Wayne sees it too, judging by the way his whole frame relaxes just an inch._

_The fear and distress falls out with the rage as he shouts, right into his counterpart's face. The agony reverberating throughout the room, likely more than the man is aware._

“ _Where,” Batman begins, failing to keep the note of hopelessness out of his voice as he strives to project only wrath. “Where is my son? Where is my Tim?”_

_Slowly, Bruce raises his hands, an effort not to spook the crazed bull. Then, in tones quiet but firm, “I think we need to have a talk.”_

* * *

By midday, Tim is utterly exhausted. The fatigue of the plane ride along with the undercurrent of unshakable anxiety thrumming through his body burns his eyes with every blink, grit and sand clinging to each eyelash, yearning to close. Two full nights without any sleep really hasn't done him any favours―he feels like death warmed over and probably looks just as bad.

Uneasiness courses through his muscles, a constant thrum, like that of rain on a tin roof―although not nearly as calming. The anxiety alone is enough to keep him awake, preventing him from snatching any sleep. The drone of apprehension plucks at his nerves like a plectrum to a tightly strung guitar; _he can't let his guard down, not yet, he's not safe yet._

The Titans Tower is a sight for sore, _exhausted_ eyes.

_Home,_ some part of him sighs with relief, or at least one of many he has had over his lifetime. It's not his apartment or even what the manor once was, but it calls to him like a siren song nonetheless. It lures him in with the promise of protection and the memories of friendship.

Kon and Bart and the rest of the team are probably all inside, or perhaps out on a mission―which would be okay too, because it would give Tim a few hours to think up something to say to them.

Tim grips the straps of his Robin backpack a little tighter and feels the weight on his chest lift a little as he takes a step forward and then another until he's striding up the path to the tower, the trail leading through a forest of Tamaranian trees, shrubs and flowers―long ago planted by Starfire, presumably. The detritus is cool and the long shadows the alien trees cast almost entirely blocks out the sun. Only a few brave sunbeams dare to touch the forest floor. It is more than just a little overgrown, but the stone steps up the hill are still easily manageable―maybe Starfire has not had time to tend her garden recently. The flowers along the way, an assortment of purples and blues and odd orange-pink colours that can't quite be called orange _or_ pink, bow and bend with the slight breeze that blows in off the bay. It's quiet in the garden and Tim finds he quite likes it. In his own world, the two of them never really did see eye to eye, he felt. Perhaps that was because she was so incredibly loyal to Dick, even after they parted ways. Tim never could be fully comfortable in her presence―though, for a time, he did sincerely try. In spite of that, he did like her and he valued her as a member of the team. Starfire was good at what she did, even if she tended to be more impulsive than most.

The path eventually leads him to a familiar gate with a small press pad for his thumb. It's a little old and could use an upgrade, but presumably, after the Tim of this universe died, Batman likely no longer continued to keep tabs on the Titans―and Tim and Victor were the two constantly updating their equipment in his world anyway. Without a Tim here, things were bound to be a little out of date.

With a silent wish, he presses his thumb against the pad and allows it to scan his fingerprint, praying they never deleted the other Tim's biometrics off of the system.

The screen lights up in green and Tim grins as the gate slowly swings open to reveal the familiar grounds. The statue out the front of the building remains mostly untouched―the original team, including his adopted brother, Dick―stands proud and tall out front. The sight of it elicits mixed feelings from him.

Dick looked so young here. Maybe the same age as Tim is now, or at least not too much older. The look on his face is so hopeful. Perhaps the statue was created _before_ Jason died. Or maybe during one of the better, not so rough patches when Tim had been Robin.

Remembering his brother like this was difficult, if only because Tim was so young at the time. _Then again_ , he thinks as he shakes himself out of his reverie, _this isn't the Dick I know at all._ This wasn't _his_ Dick Grayson. _He_ _can never forget that._

Behind the statue is a building that had once been his weekend refuge, a place to go when Jack Drake was giving him a hard time, or Bruce was away on a Justice League mission. A place to go to escape from the constant beat of Gotham, a place to shuck just a sliver of the load on his shoulders.

The heroes here― _his friends: Bart, Kon, Cassie_ _―_ had made him feel a little more like a real person, when most days he had felt as though he were a facsimile of a human. A robot, going through the motions, pretending it was real. The team had been through a lot in his universe… he hoped time had treated them more kindly here.

They'd not been a family, not on paper at least, but Tim had relied on them when there was nowhere else to go. And they had helped pull him through some tough spots, both in his civilian life as Tim Drake and his vigilante life as Robin. The amount of times he had sat with one or more of them just to _talk_ about school, Batman, vigilantism, family―just to be completely open with _someone_ _―_ was innumerable. And they had understood. They _knew_. They relied on him too. They had relied on _him._ _And maybe even if they hadn't wanted him, they had needed him._

As much as he loved Bruce― _and he still loved Bruce, there was no questioning that_ ―the man had other problems to deal with before Tim, and he'd not become Robin only to burden the man further. The Titans had provided a rock to cling to in the middle of a stormy ocean.

Tim steps up to the front door and presses his thumb down on the second pad there, this time not surprised by the green flash of admittance.

The friendly, feminine, AI voice that greets him with: _“B-zero-1 – Robin. Welcome,”_ sounds as though it has had better days, but a silent thrill runs through him at being called “Robin.” No one has called him that in a long time. In those days, he had yet to meet Pru or duke it out with Ra's and the Council of Spiders. Damian had yet to invade his life and Dick's youngest brother had been _him._ A part of him, although just a small one, baulks at the name; a reminder him that the mantle no longer belongs to him.

The inside of the building looks more dilapidated than Tim likes. There are upturned chairs, dead pot plants, and the room is littered with glass from a smashed window. Tim tries to shake off the sight of it, but it unnerves him. _The Titans tower in his own world is nothing short of impeccable, always clean and well-maintained._ After Conner's death at the hands of Superboy-Prime and Bart's sacrifice, the cleanliness of the building had felt like a dichotomy to his life, suddenly disarrayed.

“Hello?” he tries, calling out, receiving nothing in reply.

Tim doesn't want to admit it, but it hardly seems implausible at this point. _The Titans have abandoned the tower._ Questions bounce through his brain, one after another, in a succession so rapid that, before one half-formed answer can form, a new question is taking its place.

“ _Hello?_ ” he yells again, accidentally kicking a broken piece of glass with his shoe as he starts stumbling towards the elevator, a little more desperate this time.

Tim punches the up arrow on the lift panel with the side of his hand and waits impatiently for the arrow to light up; the few seconds that it takes feel like an eternity.

A cold draft sweeps through the room and a shudder runs down Tim's spine as the doors to the elevator finally slide open, revealing the familiar pattern of the of the two T's embossed in the carpet. Identical to the one in his own world, the elevator has two pin-striped purple walls―one left and one right―and a third made from thick glass. For superheroes like Starfire, Kon and Garfield, the windowed wall did not hold the same appeal as it always had for Tim, the difference being that Tim had never been granted the gift of flight. Bart could run up buildings, so the elevator had always felt far too slow for him. Meanwhile, Raven preferred to simply fly straight up through the floors and walls inside the building. Most of the team only took the lift for Tim's sake, there was little point in it otherwise.

With hardly any less compassion for the inside buttons as the outside one, Tim thwacks the 'P' with two fingers and waits for the doors to close. The automated AI voice announces their intended destination, the penthouse.

Tim only breathes a little easier once the doors are shut.

“Robin,” says the AI, once again jerking him from his thoughts. “You have: 278 messages. 276 new messages and 2 old messages. Would you like to hear them now?”

Tim blinks, then clears his throat, but his voice still comes out raspy― _he had forgotten the AI was programmed for this._ Who had been sending his counterpart messages? Over half a year's worth, to boot.

“Who are the new messages from?” he asks, glad that the AI cannot detect the hint of nervousness in his voice.

“ _142 messages are from Superboy. 57 messages are from Impulse. 32 messages are from Wondergirl. 12 messages are from Beast Boy. 10 messages are from Starfire. 25 messages from Other.”_

“Other?” Tim asks aloud, more to himself than to the computer.

“ _Other selected. You have 25 assorted messages from JLA members,”_ the computer begins to clarify. _“JLA member messages from: Nightwing, Batman. Would you like to listen to your messages?”_

Right now, Tim isn't sure he can take the guilt. _Does it really surprise him that the team had used the A.I.'s messaging system as a way to cope with their grief?_ No, not particularly―it was something he too had thought to start doing back in his own universe after Conner's passing. Only the thought of what other's might say had they found them had stopped him. Tim didn't need anyone finding out he wasn't as together as he had made himself appear.

Still, it doesn't seem right to listen to messages intended for an entirely different Tim― _or perhaps he just can't stand the idea of listening to something he will never have._

“No, thank you,” he replies. “Maybe later.”

The computer falls blessedly silent.

Finally, the elevator doors open again and this time, Tim finds himself in the common-space. It's dark, quiet, and a mess, but not quite as bad as downstairs. Up here, there are thankfully no smashed or missing windows. But besides the disorder there is still something off―something not right and it takes me him a minute to figure out what it is.

“Pot-plants,” he says to the empty room, striding over to the nearest green fern. The smell is earthy, real, and alive. Tim reaches out to feel the green leaves, confirming that these plants are real and not simply plastic imitations. The smell of wet soil only confirms his suspicions. “They've been watered…”

Someone was here. _Recently._

Also, it smells like brownies in here―and not the kid friendly kind.

Both hope and fear simultaneously alight like fire in his chest. Someone is living here, in the tower.

_The question is: who?_

Tim reaches around for his bo-staff, fingers clutching at nothing aside from empty air. Silently, he chastises himself. Right now he is unarmed and in civilian gear; he'd been a fool to leave all of his gear in his own universe.

Maybe some part of him had been overly optimistic regarding Bruce's assertion that Batman no longer existed in this universe―and therefore Robin didn't need to either. The small part of him that always wanted to be cradled and protected in his adoptive father's arms had momentarily forgotten that he had forgone true safety the moment he put on the Robin suit. There was no going back to the naive child he had once been. Buoyant as a boat on the waves in his belief that Robin gave him wings and a higher purpose, a place in the world, a feeling like he wasn't just the son of two wealthy, but absent parents.

Maybe Tim had just wanted to believe in this world's Bruce so _badly_ that he had, for a moment, thought it would be different than his own.

_Maybe the Bruce in his own universe loved him, or maybe he didn't. Did it matter either way?_ He was just tired of being left behind.

Tim stalks silently through the room, sliding into Red Robin as though simply throwing on a coat. Now that he is looking, _really looking,_ it's more than just the fact that there are watered pot plants. The empty milk on the kitchen counter is less than three days out of date. The TV is off, but the Playstation 2 is still whirring and lit up in green. There are little signs everywhere, now that Tim is actively searching for them and not so absorbed in pitiful problems

It sets him on edge.

_Tim wants a weapon in his hands, if only so he doesn't feel so vulnerable._

The lockers.

If Tim really was Robin in this universe, there should be a spare bo-staff in the Teen Titan's gym lockers. It would probably be a little short for his reach now, but it would do.

New plan decided, Tim slinks out of the room and beelines down the hall, eyes continuously scanning the area for any unwanted intruders.

_God, he hopes it isn't Slade who's decided to make the Titan's tower a safe-house, that really would be a horrible hand of cards._

He makes it to the empty gym without incident and his gaze quickly runs over the derelict and unkempt equipment for any signs of life before dodging over to the lockers. For the third-time, Tim presses his thumb to a biopad and allows the system to scan his print, eventually granting him access to the inside of his counterpart's locker.

It's neat and organised, much like his own had been, but there are a few personal touches―such as the photo wedged in the door of Kon, Cassie, and himself, his arms looped around both of their necks, all of them grinning―that Tim had buried in a box beneath his bed at the manor when Kon had died. Everything had been too hard after the boy had died, or perhaps he had simply been too weak.

Along with the bo-staff at the back, Tim takes out his Robin suit. It's a little smaller than might be comfortable, but it still fits, the domino mask just barely. It's a little strange, given how unfamiliar it feels against his face and how used to a cowl he has become.

Gently slipping the photo out, he gives it one last glance before locating a place for it in his utility belt, hoping Other Tim wouldn't mind him borrowing it for a while; he isn't superstitious, but a good luck charm couldn't hurt.

Slowly, carefully, and almost entirely on the balls of his feet, Tim surreptitiously returns from the same direction in which he came, furtively sneaking back down the hall and once again into the large, common-room space.

Then, it's not that he's unprepared for an attack, in fact quite the opposite, but he _is_ unprepared for an attack by a green frilled-necked lizard yelling: “Geronimo!” and leaping onto his black and yellow cape. Letting out an undignified squeak, he attempts to thwack it with his bo-staff, but is unsuccessful due to the green lizard morphing into a small lemur and dodging artfully out the way.

The pieces come together immediately then, Tim spins around for the first time to come face to face with his attacker―now an enormous green rhinoceros.

“Garfield?!” he exclaims, unsuccessfully attempting to blink away the surprise at the sight of the giant, green animal standing before him.

The rhino snorts, unimpressed and more than just a little suspicious, before: “Who's asking? And don't think I'm fooled by that suit you're wearing, I know you're not… _him._ ”

Tim deliberates only a moment, Batman's voice in the back of his head faintly warning him that removing his domino is a bad idea. _Except,_ _what does he have to lose, exactly?_ Nothing that isn't already dead or gone.

With that depressing thought firm in his mind, Tim reaches up for the mask and slowly peels it away.

“It's me, Gar,” he says, and he can see the exact moment Garfield's brain stutters over the sight of Tim's face― _here, though he's not meant to be._ “It's Tim.”

Garfield shifts from a rhino down to something vaguely resembling an ape until he is all the way fully human, staggering as he steps forward, one foot after another. Arm's half-raised, small hands looking almost like paws, outstretched, reaching for Tim like he cannot fully believe he is there until he _touches_ him.

“It's you,” he breathes, eyes roaming over the little Robin insignia and then back to Tim's face, searching. “It's… really you.”

And Tim, _well_ , no one has looked at him like Gar is looking at him right now in a long time. He surges forward and wraps the other boy in a hug, folding him against the suit. And Gar just… _goes._ He clings to Tim and then, when he finally pulls away, he drinks in the sight of him like he has only just discovered water.

“You're alive―how…?” he begins, eyes searching his face, voice cracking. “ _How is it possible? Batman said… he said you were dead.”_ Garfield looks angry and hurt, and a little lost, and Tim tries not to take it personally as his fingertips tighten fractionally on the other boy's upper arms.

_Fast,_ he thinks. _Like ripping off a band-aid._ Despite the intention, the words that tumble out of his mouth are anything but quick and sure.

“I don't… I don't know how to tell you this,” he mumbles, stumbling over the words, haltingly. Grip tightening around Garfield's arms, some part of him is completely sure that once the truth is out, Gar will draw away from him in disgust. “Really, I. I… I don't know how to say this in a way that won't make me sound completely crazy, but… I'm not _your_ Tim.”

Garfield's dark eyes, touched around the irises with the slightest hint of yellow, morph into puzzlement.

Tim takes a deep breath, steeling himself to clarify: “I'm not the Tim that belongs in this universe, I'm… I'm from a different one.”

Patiently, he waits as Garfield muddles through his sentence, confusion distorting then blooming into understanding and surprise.

“You're…” he begins, then stops to swallow. “You're from a different universe?”

It sounds like a statement, but it's a question. Tim flinches, then nods. Already bracing for Gar to pull back. A small voice at the back of his brain starts to criticise. The chant of _replacement, replacement, replacement,_ already wending its way through his mind, a familiar refrain.

“I'm sorry,” he apologises softly, curling into himself despite the fact that Gar's grip on him only tightens in return. _This… maybe this was a mistake, coming here. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake. Maybe Tim only makes choices that turn out to be mistakes._

Garfield opens his mouth to say something, but is unexpectedly cut off by the sound of a scream that sounds more like a battle cry.

Tim recognises the sound of a sword unsheathing and on instinct alone, he shoves the other boy to the ground with his left hand and spins on his heel in one swift, fluid motion, reaching for and extending his bo-staff with his right.

“Get away, Timothy!” his attacker yells, in a voice that is _unfortunately_ familiar. It sends a curl of some unnamed emotion around Tim's stomach like sour milk. “There's a demon behind you!”

It's far too easy a thing to block the errant swing of Damian's sword, as untrained as this version of him is. The effort required to disarm him is all but non-existent. The weapon falls to the floor with a loud clatter and then skids to a stop by a kitchen bar stool, harmless outside of its owner's grasp given how obviously blunt it is.

Garfield squeaks, morphing into a monkey and swinging up to the ceiling, out of harm's way as he watches the short show.

“Who the ever-loving heck is this?” says the monkey, Garfield's voice awkwardly high in his present form.

“The demon can shape shift!” shouts the boy as he drops into a defensive stance, palms vertical and flat in front of his face.

Tim just sighs loudly and returns his bo-staff to its place. With a heavy hand, Tim pinches the bridge of his nose and for a brief moment, closes his eyes, allowing the exhaustion to crash over him like a wave. _God, he's so tired._

“Damian,” he begins, voice flat and fatigued, reluctantly dragging his eyelids open once more. “Why are you _here?”_

Begrudgingly, the younger boy drags his suspicious gaze away from Garfield―pinned to the ceiling by the considerable amount of mistrust in his scrutinous stare―and back to Tim, although with no less distrust.

“I followed you,” the boy states, eyes narrowing as he shuffles half a step forward. Tim cannot tell if the puffing of his chest is out of misplaced pride or a sign of confrontation to come, but in the opposite direction he matches the distance closed between them.

Tim's inability to read Damian's hieroglyphic body language has proven near fatal before. For some reason, though, the boy's frown morphs into something that could be construed as _hurt_ on anyone else.

“That's not what I asked…” he breathes out on the tail end of another sigh. Damian being here will make everything more complicated, he already knows.

“Tim?” Garfield asks, lightly dropping from the ceiling as he deems the danger mostly gone, once again morphing into a human, but being sure to keep a healthy distance between himself and Damian. “Do you know this kid?”

This… this was not how this day was supposed to go… Tim was supposed to come here alone. The Titans were all supposed to be here. Damian _wasn't_.

Tim extends two fingers, one pointing toward the youngest of the Wayne's and the other toward Beast Boy, who still maintains an unsure glare of distrust. Tim had never planned for the two of them to ever meet, but if he had, it sure as hell wouldn't have been like this.

“Garfield,” he says tightly, restrained exasperation in his thin, almost breathy tone. “Meet Damian, my― _your Tim's―_ brother.”

Beast Boy looks between the two of them, but then settles on staring at Tim like he has grown a second head. “You have another brother? I thought you already had two… geez, Batman's been busy…”

Tim ignores the statement, slightly aimless in a rambling kind of way, in favour of turning back to Damian. Shooting him a warning glare, one that the boy in his own universe would surely do nothing but sneer at, Tim can only hope and pray that this one takes the hint.

“Damian,” he begins anew, meeting the deep green eyes that are so different and yet terribly familiar all at the same time. “Meet Garfield. We were on a team together, once. Uh, or you know what I mean.”

Unsurprisingly, it's Garfield who puts away his distrust first to extend a hand across the space between them, grinning broadly when Damian decides to take it one long minute later. Still, it is sooner than the Damian _he_ knows would have put aside his qualms.

“Pleasure,” says Damian tautly, though it sounds anything but. The slightest hint of sourness falls from the tip of his tongue and his nose crinkles as their hands clasp, the grip just a little too tight. The young boy's smile is so forced, it looks as though he's holding a bitter lemon in each cheek.

“Cool,” returns Garfield, undeterred and still smiling genuinely. Tim isn't sure if he cannot read Damian's body language, or if he's plainly ignoring it. “Nice to meet you, Little Dude."

“Do not call me _Little Dude,”_ the boy snaps, followed by a distasteful sniff. “Green Demon.”

Tim rolls his eyes long-sufferingly and thinks about chastising Damian for a moment before deciding it is all too hard and he is _far_ too tired for this.

Damian wiggles his nose, disgust riding highest upon his expression. “And you should open a window some time. It smells awful in here.”

Garfield doesn't look even remotely bashful or embarrassed as he throws his hands on his hips and admits, “Yep. That'll probably be the weed.”

It's been far too long since Tim took a nap. Yeah. He's going to take a nap. Preferably while his body is still giving him a choice in the matter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prudence raids the manor kitchen, it does not go as planned. Meanwhile, Tim wakes up from his nap (regretfully), Damian curses creatively, and Garfield explains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have said it before, but I will say it again: A Huge Thank You to my Beta, Kay.
> 
> Also, if you spot a typo or an error anywhere, please do not hesitate to point it out to me! ❤️

_Batman's elbow falls just an inch, hardly far enough for anyone to really take note, but in this group they all do. In the moment, it feels utterly unmissable._

“ _Fine,” he says eventually, lowering his fist to just above Bruce Wayne's chest; the scrap of fabric bunched in his other hand loosening. “Let's talk.” There's a beat, and then, just as the Bruce Wayne in civilian clothes starts to turn away: “After I see my son.”_

_A_ _curious_ _twist of bitterness churns Pru's stomach, but she pushes it away before the_ _idea following the feeling_ _has time to fully form. There's no use in being churlish regarding the man's past behaviours_ _―_ _she has to let go of the idea that she can judge him. That isn't what they're here for;_ _she needs to focus. Pru knows where her loyalties are; no matter what happens, she's on Tim's side_ _._ _If she can confirm with her own eyes that the kid is happy here, well, she'll fight tooth and nail to make sure he stays._

“ _That's going to be a bit difficult at present,” the other man says, even and carefully measured, holding Batman's glare with a stone cold poker face of his own._

_Fingertips scrunched in cashmere tighten again, infinitesimally, but it's there._

_Batman doesn't get the chance to ask for clarification because, on Pru's right, Nightwing speaks up. The eldest of Batman's brood has found his feet, albeit swaying in place a little as he stumbles upright. His expression is more overtly desperate than the one on Batman's, but there's a streak of righteous defiance and an undercurrent of aggression that could easily rival it._

“ _Why?” he near growls, flicking dark locks out of his eyes with one swift, jerky movement. “What have you done with him?”_

_It's almost fascinating to watch his counterpart step up, a picture of calm, palms raised and all. Pru doesn't doubt that the composure is a front, a façade, but the heat and tensions are once again slowly rising in the cave, despite the icy breeze whistling through._

“ _Nothing,” says the more immaculate version of Dick Grayson,_ _d_ _ressed in slacks and a sweater, he's vastly more together than the one Pru traversed universes with_ _―_ _not more than ten minutes ago at most_ _. “When we woke up this morning, he was gone.”_

_Between one blink and the next, Batman's grip has tightened into a fist once more._

“ _If I find out you have hurt him in any way―” he begins in a gravelly growl, but then is cut off by the man in his grip._

“ _I haven't,” he promises with a sharp shake. “I would_ never _hurt him.”_

_Prudence quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing, head turning as another voice cuts in._

“ _Damian is gone too,” the Jason native to this universe adds, maybe as a distraction. “We think they might be together.”_

_Dick keeps the ball rolling, stepping forward yet again, with palms open wide―a gesture meant to set the trespassers at ease. “We've been searching for them both all morning, but so far we have had little luck. The tracking software on the Batcomputer is… a little out of date.”_

_Pru finally feels stable enough to rise to her feet, an idea striking her._

“ _Does―” she begins haltingly, drawing all eyes in the room to her. “Does he have his phone?”_

_Bruce frowns, a furrowed look._

“ _I'm not sure,” he says. “Why?”_

_Pru exchanges a look with Batman, releasing the doppelganger from his hand to reach into his utility belt. Pulling out the burner phone, he gives it a long, hard stare,_ _his expression unreadable behind the white lenses of the cowl._

_When he looks up again, Pru gives a firm nod. He returns it._

“We _can track him,” Batman states and, for the first time, he sounds hopeful. Pru worries what that means for a variety of reasons, yet at the same time, part of her feels oddly reassured._

_Robin, now no longer in danger of throwing up, steps forward. “Wait a moment,” he interjects clearly, casting a suspicious glance around the cave and it's occupants, eyes eventually settling on Nightwing's counterpart. “You mean to say that I have a doppelganger in this universe as well?”_

_Pru isn't sure whether she should be surprised or not by the softness that creeps into Dick Grayson's face. Already she can tell that Robin and Nightwing are close, that the Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne of this universe are also close_ _i_ _s_ _not an unthinkable leap. With so much love there, she wonders how it is that Tim was so entirely left behind_ _―_ _the logic doesn't follow. She feels like she is missing an important piece to the puzzle._

_The man doesn't speak to Robin as though he's a child, but there is a gentle edge to it that even Pru finds warm and inviting._ _There's a tinge of worry that colors_ _his timbre as he admits_ _:_ _“_ _Yes._ _Our Dam_ _ia_ _n is missing_ _also_ _._ _We think he either left with Tim or went after him._ _”_

_A spark of tension ripples through the air. It's subtle, but still there._

_Given the previous hostility she has detected from Robin towards Tim, she is thoroughly surprised by the flash of guilt. It splashes across his features like haphazardly thrown paint. Almost immediately it is wiped clean, covered by a look of determination and an egotism that he wears like a thick overcoat; she still files the memory away for unpacking and dissecting later._

“ _Then,” says Batman, interrupting her thoughts with sturdy steel in his voice and unshakable resolve in the set of his tight jaw, all carried by an undercurrent of agitated apprehension. “We shall simply have to look for and find them both.”_

_What will happen and what they will do_ after _they find Tim and Robin's runaway counterpart, nobody mentions, but she doesn't doubt they're all wondering just as she is._

_It's not like Batman can_ drag _Tim home, after all._

* * *

_It is odd. Very odd, indeed. After all, Prudence is pushing twenty-five, for god's sake―nobody has ordered her to bed in a very long time. Besides that, nobody has ever bossed her around and gotten away with it. Except Owens, maybe. Even then, the man had always been treading thin ice and he had known it._

_Apparently, though, Batman seems to believe he can get away with anything._

_The shift from hostile enemy to congenial ally is swift and blunt. Batman gives a signal and Nightwing removes his mask. The change is immediate._

_Suddenly, every person in the cave is on friendlier terms―she would almost call it comedic, if the situation weren't so serious. The two Jason's dance around each other warily for a few moments, but it's barely ten minutes before they're trading cigarettes and cracking crass jokes within earshot of their respective brothers, exasperated expressions and eye-rolling ensuing._

_Pleasantries exchanged―with handshakes and apologies―the two Bruce Wayne's send their respective children upstairs, and Pru is apparently included in that, if the glare he gives her is anything to go by. The boys go cheerfully, as though it is entirely expected, despite Nightwing and Dick Grayson being almost the same age as her and none of them―with the exception of Robin―resembling anything close to a child._

_There isn't much she can really do about it, despite the flush of indignation. It would be, for lack of a better word,_ childish _, to kick up a fuss. So she doesn't, instead simply trailing behind the gaggle of Gothamites as they traipse upstairs and making sure to flash both Bruce Wayne and Batman a steely scowl as she trudges out reluctantly._

_Dick leads Nightwing and Robin up to the second floor to get them situated and comfortable in spare rooms so that they might sleep a few hours, while Jason and Red Hood disappear outside to finish their cigarettes and bask in the late morning sun._

_Prudence resolves to find the kitchen and then raid it._

_Unfortunately, when she does find it, there's an old man in there, baking._

_Prudence comes to a complete stop and is noticed before she can decide whether or not to back out slowly or continue onward into the most homely space of the manor she has visited so far._

“ _Good morning,” the older gentleman greets politely, before she has even announced herself, his back still turned to her as he places a tray in the oven before turning to face her. The aging man, grey and balding, with a comb over that floats from one ear to the other, wipes his hands on a tea-towel as he moves. “Welcome to Wayne Manor.”_

“ _Uh,” Pru vocalizes hesitantly, then clears her throat as she crosses the threshold, leaving the dining room with only a small amount of reluctance in her steps. “Thanks?”_

_The old man's lips give a twitch. “Alfred Pennyworth,” he introduces, holding out a wrinkled hand. Then: “I suspect no one has yet suitably greeted you since your arrival. I must apologise for that. Manners are not a strong suit in this house, unfortunately.”_

“ _Prudence,” she returns, taking the proffered palm and giving it a quick, gentle shake._

_Alfred gestures for her to take a seat, so she does, despite feeling perplexed by this odd man's cordial welcome. It leaves her feeling as though she is staring at something obvious, but cannot see the strings that connect the dots; she has missed a step somewhere. The friendliness feels very odd―strange maybe because the man has likely no idea where she came from, but entirely possible for other, unknown reasons as well. Perhaps it is a common thing in this house, for strangers to simply show up in the kitchen. Pru would not put it past any Wayne's in any dimension to have friends like that._

“ _Allergies?” he queries, turning back to the counter before she can begin an interrogation of her own._

“ _Oh, um, no?”_

“ _Very good.”_

_The room falls silent and Pru tries not to cringe. The old man does not seem to mind it, or her scrutinising stare, thankfully._

_Briefly, she wonders if he knows he is talking to a human from another dimension, but then carefully sweeps that thought aside because,_ of course he would not know that _―traversing dimensions wasn't exactly something that people just_ did. _However, she finds herself almost startling out of her seat when the old man apparently reads her thoughts._

“ _I am aware of everything that happens under this roof, Miss Prudence,” he says with silent amusement, a twitch of his moustache the only sign of a smile. “Lord knows I have raised enough children to not know when something is amiss or plans are afoot.”_

_Lord help her if this man can read minds._

_Alfred gently deposits a plate in front of her, an assortment of warm breads and spreads upon it. The man is a riddle wrapped up in a mystery, inside an enigma, but the grandfatherly smile he provides her is one of understanding and warmth._

_Warily, she gives him one last studious stare before tucking into the delightful looking foods with quiet thanks._

“ _You and your companions are welcome here for as long as you need,” he continues, reaching for the faucet as he turns to the sink. The water comes out obviously cold, but it isn't long until Pru can see the steam rising from the continuous stream. Alfred pushes in the plug and the sink begins to fill. “… and, of course, Timothy is as well,” he adds, so much more quietly that she almost wonders if he intended to say the last part out loud._

_Pru swallows down a chunk of English breakfast muffin, all buttered up and oozing sweet black-forest jam, but it suddenly tastes like nothing in her mouth and scratches her throat on the way down like gritty sand._

_A glass of water materialises in front of her and she returns the gracious, warm smile this time, giving her thanks once again and taking a long sip until the entire glass is empty._

“ _Bruce―the Bruce from_ my _universe that is_ ― _wants to bring him home with us,” she says softly, almost conspiratorially in how hushed it is. Talking is… well, it's not her forte, but the old man's genteel demeanour makes it almost impossible to hold back the flood of words. Prudence isn't even sure he'll understand what she means, especially given the way she tends to ramble and often hardly manages a conversation without getting decked in the face. “And, as much as I like Tim, I want what is best for him. Returning to our universe might… it might not be. Tim thinks that he isn't wanted there.”_

_A part of her knows that isn't completely true, now at least_ _. She might have believed it twenty-four hours ago, before she saw that aching, desperate look in the gaze hidden beneath the cowl. Still, she isn't going to let Tim go back to a universe that_ _seems to only ever bring him pain_ _. After what he has done for her she owes him that much._

_Alfred is quiet for a long moment as he reaches for dish soap and squeezes the lurid green liquid into the hot water. It comes out in one long, unbroken spiral of goop and sparkles a little under the warm light of mid morning, the sun peeking higher with each passing hour. Eventually, he closes the cap with a sharp snap and draws in a long, heavy breath._

“ _I fear,” he begins, after an age of only the sound of running water. “From what I have gleaned, that Timothy believes he is not wanted anywhere.”_

_The sound of the faucet squeaking as the old man turns it back the other way is what brings Pru's gaze up from where it has fallen to the counter-top. Alfred is staring at her when she meets his eyes._

“ _It is our job,” he continues, wisdom heavy in the lines of his face. “To ensure that he knows that that is not the case at all.”_

_Little soap bubbles float up from the sink as Pru diverts her gaze away from the piercing stare, but no matter how hard she tries to shift her thoughts, Prudence wonders if Tim's family can actually manage that._

_Finishing her meal in silence, the pair of them spend a companionable few more minutes in each other's company. The only sound heard is that of the metal scourer against dainty, cream plates, plastered with the remnants of the family's breakfast. For a period of time, Pru loses herself in her thoughts and exhaustion. It is a few minutes later that Alfred accidentally snaps her out of it by losing his grip on some silverware in the soapy water, the clatter enough to jolt her, pulling her out of her tired, thousand yard stare._

_"Thank you for the meal," she rasps, sounding like she just ran her vocal cords over a cheese grater. It always feels odd to hear her own scratchy voice―but the long silence made it even worse. It's always been husky, more so after the assassination attempt by the Council of Spiders._

_Before Alfred can reply, or she has to say something else, she hastily departs from the kitchen back out of the entranceway she'd wandered in through, past the dining room and into the main hall. Sunlight floods through the windows, pooling in puddles of bright light on the wooden floors. A little ways off, in another room, she can hear hushed voices._

_Following the sounds, Pru finds herself in a dusty sitting room, staring out at two broad backs before she realises the mistake she's made._

_The two Bruce's, standing outside on a little balcony ledge, are having their Talk. Briefly worrying her bottom lip, she intends to exit the room as swiftly as possible, round on her heel and walk straight back into the kitchen with Alfred where it is decidedly safer, but the conversation catches her ear and grounds her in one spot, staring down at her feet._

_They're talking about Tim._

_The Bruce previously in cape and cowl has changed into borrowed clothes, but is still easily distinguishable from his counterpart; his back more hunched, his hair greyer, despite looking physically younger as a whole. When Prudence glances up, she notices and then is subsequently unable to tear her eyes away from the familiar burner phone in the man's hand._

“― _call him,” the other Bruce is saying, the one that now goes through life in cashmere, without the burden of Batman upon his shoulders. “Don't you think that Tim deserves―”_

_This is private, she suddenly thinks, fleeing from the room and hoping that at least one of the two Bruce's will dial the only number recorded in the contacts list. At least then she will know which of them can be trusted with Tim going forward._

* * *

Tim does not recall falling asleep, but he wakes up in a very odd position on the communal couch at around lunchtime. For the first time in a long time he feels rested, despite the lingering questions lurking in the back of his mind; he has yet to ask Garfield what happened to the tower and the rest of the titans.

The arm he's thrown across his face and the heavy, writhing ball of agitation sits in his chest, bouncing up and down against his rib cage, cracking fragile bones. Sleep had provided temporary respite from it, though wakefulness provides the basal foundation upon which the spike in his heart rate climbs. Having only just woken up, now, suddenly, he feels tired again.

Blinking to clear the fuzziness from his brain and the blurriness from his eyes, the first thing he notes is that he can see Beast Boy. The sight of the green teen, snacking on some kind of cracker as he snarls in concentration at a video-game, immediately alleviates the irrational anxiety thrumming through his veins. That his friend and team-mate would disappear during the few hours in which he'd slipped into unconsciousness was a fear, unfounded. Garfield is still there, and Tim feels just the tiniest bit silly for allowing the apprehension to cause such nervousness.

The next thing he is quick to notice is the stiff, straight-backed lump sitting in front of him, almost like a Gotham gargoyle, guarding him whilst he'd slumbered. Unlike a gargoyle, however, the statue breathes softly, and it's head turns at the hitch in Tim's own.

“You're awake,” it says, sounding tired, though still vastly more awake and alert than Tim currently feels. “Finally.”

Once again, he has to blink the exhaustion and disbelief from his eyes before he can fully register that the straight-backed gargoyle is in fact Damian.

Propping himself up on one arm, Tim finds the slow movement stretches out stiff and sore muscles that protest accordingly.

Damian's eyes never leave him, narrowed and suspicious―though, at first Tim isn't sure why, but the motion also attracts the gaze of Garfield too.

“You did not sleep a long time,” the youngest in the room states, though it sounds more like a chastising accusation than a casual assertion. “Only a few hours.”

In return Tim gives a shrug. “I do not tend to sleep well or much,” he discloses, properly righting himself. Blood rushes to his ears, leaving him feeling slightly vertiginous.

It takes him almost a minute to understand that the boy's chary gaze is one of concern rather than mistrust. _This_ Damian is not the version that made attempts on his life, though part of him still expects some type of nasty quip to still come. It's absence leaves him feeling a little like he missed the bottom step at the base of a staircase. _This_ Damian is nothing like his own and Tim finds that he doesn't like it; at least with the version in his own universe, he knows what to expect.

A soft, somewhat disapproving hum comes in its place as Gar pauses his game and moves to sit himself opposite Tim on the coffee-table.

“Teens and young adults that experience severe sleep deprivation are more likely to develop depression and cognitive disorders,” Damian states a moment later, accompanied by a sententious sniff, as though reciting the fact straight from a doctorate paper or a book. “You should aim to get a solid eight hours or more a night.”

A snort escapes him and Tim has to push away the weird feeling bubbling up in his chest; _he really dislikes being unable to predict Damian's behaviour._

“Thanks,” he returns amusedly, sharing an entertained exchange with the other Titan in the room, who simply smirks and quirks an eyebrow in return. “I'll… keep that in mind, Damian.”

It's almost like the kid has a heart. Maybe Dick was right after all―buried under all that _assassin,_ maybe the Damian in his universe has a heart also. It's just a shame that Tim will never witness it.

Garfield gives the younger boy a wink and a thumbs up. “Good work, little dude. Glad someone is keeping an eye on this dude.”

Damian's response is less of a snarl and more of a cat-like hiss, but the sound of it only brings a smile to the other teen's lips. A look that Tim only associates with mischief and long-night's with popcorn. It's been a long time since the Garfield in his _own_ universe smiled like that, but that thought simply leaves Tim feeling guilty and suddenly hollow.

“I need coffee…” Tim declares wearily, pushing up onto his feet, feeling rusty and sore, like the Tin-Man before Dorothy's help.

Both sets of eyes follow him all the way to the kitchen, vastly varied emotions in the unblinking stares that analyse his every movement.

It is only when Tim is halfway through rifling the third cupboard that Garfield deigns to say: “Oh, I forgot! I think I drank all the coffee last week.”

With a groan, a dropped head, and a heavy sigh towards the counter-top, Tim slowly closes the cupboard and takes a deep breath, face smothered in his palms. _No. This is fine. This is all fine._

“We could take a trip to Starbucks?” Gar suggests as Tim re-emerges into the main living area, pausing a moment to rest heavily against the doorframe on his way through.

“No,” he says through another weighted sigh, allowing the stress of the past few days to leak into his voice along with a great many other emotions he hasn't yet stuffed back into their box for safekeeping. “It's fine. I've been told I should cut back anyway, might as well start now.”

Garfield continues to watch him with curious eyes as Tim sags back onto the couch, giving a wide yawn.

It doesn't go unnoticed.

“I bet you have a few questions,” Tim says through thin lips, steadily settling his elbows upon his knees.

For a long moment, Beast Boy doesn't blink, and neither does he.

“You could say that…” Gar says eventually, wrapping his palm around the back of his neck, allowing his gaze to drop to the floor, but only for a few moments. “…although 'a few' might be putting it mildly.”

Tim nods, understanding.

“I get it,” he says, pulling back and leaning into the sofa. “I've got a few of my own.”

Damian looks between them, but says nothing. The kid has more sensitivity in this universe, which Tim appreciates.

Unwittingly, Garfield mimics a hesitant nod of his own.

“Why don't you go first?” Tim offers, gesturing toward Gar unconsciously as he does so. Suddenly, he is very aware of how sweaty his palms are.

The green teen sucks in a lungful of air and flicks his gaze between both Tim and Damian, seated on the lounge, before he begins.

“You're Tim,” he starts, haltingly. “But… you're not… _my_ Tim?”

Steeling himself and bracing for the negative reaction he is expecting, Tim presses his lips together so hard that they're nearly cutting into his teeth before he gives one achingly stiff nod.

The silence encourages further questioning, it seems.

“Another universe, you said?”

Tim pries apart his jaw.

“Yes. That's right.”

The whoosh of air that abruptly exits Garfield's lungs is very much a visual thing, but the righteous burst of hurt Tim is expecting doesn't come. The anger at a stranger for showing up wearing his dead friend's face doesn't come.

“There are… Titan's in your universe, then?” Oddly, Garfield looks nervous as he asks.

Beside him, Tim discovers that Damian isn't as adept at reigning in his condescending attitude as he first gave him credit for. The younger Wayne rolls his eyes in a way that somehow seems to involve his whole body.

“Obviously you Green Noodle,” he ridicules with a scornful, derisive huff. “Do you really think Timothy would have come all the way out here just to admire San Francisco's bridge?”

Garfield looks a little like someone just attempted to bite off his fingers.

Tim shoots Damian a withering glare. Cutting the boy off before he can say anything more with an apology to Beast Boy, followed by: “If I might ask… what happened to the Titans here?”

Garfield's gaze sinks to his feet and, with the way he wears his heart on his sleeve, Tim judges that that sinks even further. The air turns very stale and uncomfortable. While the world goes on outside the tower, the three of them are trapped in a bubble; a rapidly sinking quagmire of despair.

“Well,” he says finally, slowly interlocking his fingers in a way that looks entirely absent-minded, but keeping his stare fixed to the ground. “It's a bit of a long story, but it all started when you… _when Tim_ _―_ died.”

There's a long break, a breath-held pause. Teetering silence fills it. Tim goes very still, spine nearly rigid with tension.

“I'll… I'll spare you the worst of it, but we basically… _collapsed_.”

Grief passes over Garfield's face, but as quickly as it is there, it is gone again.

“Batman… he kind of lost it after you died. Well, we _all_ did, but him most of all. It was very sudden, faster than any of us were prepared for, I think, but he pulled out of the Justice League and took most of the funding with him. Other heroes decided they couldn't take the guilt of a dead child on their hands, so the sidekicks were dropped.

I… I'm not sure what happened to Bart or Raven or Cassie… I know Starfire left Earth, but I don't know where she went exactly. Superman… well. That's. Conner got the brunt of it, really. Batman's leaving the League really hit Superman hard. And he… he did not do Conner any favours when he told him he would not allow any more Supermen. Conner argued, because of course he did, but in the end they had a big fight and Superman tried to claim he was doing what was best for Conner, but… he didn't see it that way.

After that, all I know is that Conner left. It wasn't long before I figured out where he went though.”

Damian leans in closer and Tim can feel himself holding back from doing the same as he asks: “Where did he go?” with no small amount of trepidation. The pair of them might make a funny sight to someone looking in on their conversation, but as of this moment there is nothing but unsettling distress in the room. Any comedic joy at the sight of the two of them, so clearly eager for answers, is sucked out of the room; a vacuum devoid of any emotion bar concern.

Gar shrugs, an attempt to affect some sense of nonchalance into his answer, though it fails dismally.

“Actually, I thought for a while he was going to stay here with me, but then he apparently got a better offer with Lex. Lex Luthor.”

Somehow, though he hadn't thought it to be possible, Tim only stiffens further. The reaction is immediate and definitely doesn't go unnoticed.

“Conner is with Lex?” he repeats dumbly, through lips that feel numb and useless. All at once, Tim gets the strangest sensation; his face crumpled paper, his emotions easily seen through. The knowledge that Conner would _ever_ choose Lex over the Titans is like having someone scribble all over his unsightly lines with a stark, brash black marker, leaving harsh stripes and messy streaks of monochrome.

Garfield gives a hesitant nod and suddenly Tim is very aware of Damian's intrigued eyes upon him.

“I found it hard to believe at first, too,” Gar continues, interlocked fingers twitching as though attempting to break formation but never actually succeeding. Out of nowhere, his voice turns inwardly bitter. “Or maybe I just didn't _want_ to believe it.”

Damian scoffs, loudly and abruptly as he straightens himself and sniffs haughtily. The boy's lips turn downward and his gaze rolls over the two of them in a way that leaves Tim feeling familiarly belittled and defensive. Everything about his sudden demeanour reminds Tim too much of the boy's doppelganger back home.

“Placing your faith and belief in someone who has yet to prove themselves worthy is entirely on you, you overcooked broccoli floret.”

“If you'll believe it,” he sighs, drawing Gar's attention once more. “The version in this universe is the one with the better manners.”

Garfield waves him off.

“It's all fine,” he says, a smile beginning to grow on his lips. “I'm just glad to know that the Titan's exist somewhere, in _some_ universe.”

Bile rises in Tim's throat, tainted guilt following it all the way up until it manifests as tiny pin-pricks at the back of his eyes. The remorse is overwhelming, the truth even more so.

“A-actually,” he says, forcing everything back down with a hard swallow. “That's not… quite true.”

Gar blinks at him just once before his forehead crinkles and his face draws in sharply, worry and confusion in every line.

“What do you mean?” he asks, but it's already abundantly clear that he doesn't really want to know the answer to that.

Tim breaks the illusion and allows the words to tumble from his mouth anyway.

“In my universe… there was a fight…” _And wasn't there always? Did it not always boil down to that? Was it not always throwing their chips all in and praying for the best, utilising what little strategy they could?_

By the look on Beast Boy's face, Tim knows he doesn't need to say anymore, but he pushes out the last anyway. If for himself, more than the other two in the room; he has to say it. If only so it is as real here as it felt over there.

“The Titan's―we lost people.”

Garfield's face shatters.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian thinks himself to be a master manipulator, but he is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beautiful beta: Kay!

_After catching the tail end of a conversation she clearly was not supposed to have heard, Pru heads upstairs, finds the room furthest away from all the other guest rooms, and sleeps. And then she sleeps some more. And then she wakes up, rolls over, notes the evening sun, and goes back to sleep once again._

_It is only in the early hours of dawn the next morning that she is awoken, rather abruptly, by the aggrieved, wailing sound of a distant alarm and a sonorous cry of surprise. The noises throw her sock-clad feet out of bed and before she is aware she has even moved, she is bolting down the hall, running in search of the emergency._

_Prudence comes to a stop forcefully when she trips and stumbles into a broad-shouldered back, covered only by a thin, long-sleeved sleeping shirt. It pulls her up short. Before an apology can slip from her lips, the person before her has turned, revealing themself. Jason. Or… one of them at least, she can't really tell which._

“ _Steady there,” he says, grabbing onto her shoulders to steady her before she overbalances._

_She simply blinks at him. “Thanks,” she returns._

“ _Don't mention it,” he replies, finally letting her go. “I'm betting that damn alarm freaked you out, huh?”_

“ _Uh,” she starts eloquently, waving her finger in a circular motion toward the ceiling. “Yeah. What's that all about?”_

_Jason's face draws together sharply. “Someone's broken into the Batcave,” he explains, to which her first thought is: that's not good, but just as quickly pushes away in favour of following Jason―already moving down the hall once again._

_Pru has to jog to keep up with the long-legged strides he takes._

“ _You think it's Tim?” she asks, and feels mortified by the sliver of hope she hears in her own voice. It's a detectable weakness that anyone listening could exploit and she was trained better than that._

_Jason simply shrugs at the comment. “Only one way to find out.” He stops at the end of the hall and reaches for the hands on the grandfather clock._

_Despite having exited the Batcave through this passageway yesterday, she still finds it fascinating to watch the clock swing open, revealing the steep flight of stone steps, descending into faded light._

_Following after whichever iteration of Jason this happened to be, her socks protect her feet only slightly from the frigid cold stone as they make their way down, but they're the last to arrive, it seems._

_As far as Prudence can see, everyone in the house has already gathered―including the old butler, Alfred._

_The cave itself remains as much the same as it did yesterday, unchanged with the exception of one single, though not insignificant, detail._

_A jet-plane sits on the runway ramp, one that most certainly wasn't there yesterday when she arrived._

“ _I'm guessing plane jokes won't_ fly _with this crowd” asks one of the two Dick Grayson's, jerking his thumb at the rest of the group. The other Jason quietly smothers his face in his hands and shuffles to the left, putting an inch or so more distance between him and the class-clowns._

“ _Nah,” says the other, shaking his head, a smirk already budding on his mouth. “They'd just go_ flying _over their heads.”_

_Someone groans, although Pru can't tell who over the loud guffawing coming from the pair of jokers. They earn themselves a steely scowl from one of the Bruce Wayne's, but Pru suspects it a cover for fondness._

_The first Dick Grayson to speak covers his mouth, still obviously smirking when he says: “That was awful. We should be_ grounded _.”_

_Pru's eyes rolls so hard across her vision, to anyone looking on it might seem as though she is having an episode._

_The enormous plane sits on the runway just below the ledge, a ramp slowly emerging from the belly of the plane as Pru watches on with the rest gathered._

_A boy strolls out. Small, with spiky black hair, and in civilian clothing. It takes her a moment to realise that this child's doppelganger is standing up on the ledge with her. It's Damian Wayne, the one native to this universe, presumably._

“ _Father!” the boy shouts, giving a wave from below as he ascends the metal ramp with haste._

_However, the slight of two Bruce Wayne's seems to give him pause. He stops at the top of the ramp, surveying the small crowd gathered. Not a moment later, one of the two Bruce Wayne's steps forward―the one with several more grey hairs but fewer worry lines on his face, as far as she can tell―with no small amount of urgency in the action. Closing the gap between them, he hurriedly wraps his arms around the boy in one swift, sure movement and drops a kiss to the child's head, overflowing with obvious relief._

“ _Damian,” he chastises, though the solace of having the boy in his arms is unmistakable. “Damian, how could you just disappear on us like that? Do you have any idea how worried I was?!”_

_Pru thinks it's kind of cute, the way the boys cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, get accidentally squashed as the man barely restrains from crushing him to his chest._

_Damian's eyes don't leave the second Bruce Wayne, even when he is released by the first._

“ _Father,” he says, blinking furiously, as though he thinks the second might be a hallucination. “Why are there two of you?”_

_The second man steps forward slowly, a softness reserved solely for his children creeping up on the man's face._

“ _Hello Damian,” he says, stretching out a hand. “It's nice to meet you. I am looking for someone and I am hoping you might have seen him?”_

_Cautiously, the boy takes the calloused hand and gives it a short, swift shake._

“ _Timothy,” he says, causing the man to inhale sharply through his nose as he releases his grasp. “You've come for Timothy, haven't you?”_

_Judiciously, but with a tangible amount of hesitancy, the man nods._

“ _Yes,” he affirms quietly. “I'm looking for Tim.”_

_With a boldness that Pru is swiftly becoming sure is part of the boy's character every universe over, Damian nods and declares without ado: “Then I believe I can help you.”_

* * *

Garfield disappears for an hour, heartbroken anguish seeping out of every green pore as he leaves the room quickly but quietly. Tim feels terrible and wonders if it would have been better to speak a lie rather than the truth. Damian promptly declares his intention to descend and explore the tower and, if Tim didn't know any better, he'd think the kid was trying to give him space.

Alone, Tim just studies the common room for an hour whilst trying very hard not to think about the aching chasm in his stomach, and the feral creatures clawing at his insides: spitting, hissing, snarling and scratching. The guilt eats at him, but he comes to the conclusion that Garfield deserved to know. Having already been on the receiving end of one too many a lie himself, Tim thinks the other teen deserves the truth. Lies get people killed, or worse.

When Gar returns, vastly more together than he had been during his abrupt exit, Damian returns too. Despite never having been Robin in this universe, his skills are still surprisingly sharp, and Tim feels both sad and oddly proud. The League of Assassins carved stealth into his bones like a sharp blade to the bark of a tree. Maybe those skills would dull eventually, but presently, Damian was still a malleable sapling, prone to breaking and bowing under pressure. Maybe he really would have made a good Robin, perhaps even a Batman one day, but a large part of Tim is glad that _this_ Damian will never have to shoulder the burden of the Robin mantle.

Upon his return, the very first thing Garfield does is grab on to Tim very tightly and yank him into a crushing hug. Every bone in his body splinters just a little under the strength of it.

Damian is on his feet in moments, but Tim ignores the glare that promises vengeance and anger in favour of carefully wrapping his own arms around Garfield and returning the embrace.

“I'm glad you're here,” is all the boy says, pulling away with a sniff and sounding somewhat hoarse, as though he has been crying recently. There's a beat and a pause which gives Tim time to study the dark circles under Garfield's eyes, more prominent now that he is up close. Tim wonders just how long it has been since Beast Boy slept soundly through the night and then decides that perhaps it is best if he doesn't know; he knows a thing or two about sleepless nights himself.

“I _am_ glad you're here,” Garfield repeats, sounding surer this time and giving a little nod. There is a _'but'_ in there though and Tim feels himself tensing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “It is… it is really good to see you Tim, but…”

There's a sharp intake of air past his unmoving lips that happens without conscious thought and Tim silently holds the air there as he waits.

“...but. Why _are_ you here?”

Lungs near to bursting, the rush of air all comes out at once, words not far behind. Suddenly, Tim is very conscious of who he is and who he most certainly is _not._ After Beast Boy's last reaction, Tim wonders if he should say anything at all, but then decides once again that the truth is best. Gar deserves that much, at least.

“I am here because I―. I want to get the team back together,” he begins haltingly, stumbling over the sentence like water over uneven, drought-scorched ground. A pair of brows crinkle and Damian redistributes weight from one foot to the other. Tim catalogues their reactions hyper-vigilantly, tracking both sets of movement. “We were a family once.”

Garfield blinks at him and then his expression takes on a conflicted sense of yearning. As his mouth opens, his tongue darts out to briefly wet his chapped lips, but it is Damian who gets in first, beating him to the punch.

It's almost physical, like a true and powerful blow to his sternum when Damian indignantly rebukes: “You already _have_ a family, Timothy.”

Having been stabbed before, Tim can quite confidently say the sudden, sharp pain in his chest feels almost equivalent.

“Damian…” he starts softly and then trails off, Garfield's curious but sympathetic eyes fixed upon him.

“I am your family,” the boy continues, interrupting the silence, smacking a flat palm flush against his chest while the other swings out wildly. “Father is your family.”

To Tim's ear, the pre-teen's voice has the slightest lilt of desperation to it, but… _but Damian doesn't have all the facts._ It seems almost cruel to dispel his hope, but perhaps the boy will finally understand why Tim could not and cannot call him family. Something curdles a little more in Tim's chest as he parts his lips and stalls in his search for words.

“Damian,” he says again, this time with surety along with sympathy as he speaks, taking care with his feet as he walks the rocky mountain trail of melancholy and resignation. “B wasn't going to keep me.”

Damian simply snorts and folds his arms across his chest.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he scoffs. “Father would not have crossed universes if he did not intend to _keep you.”_

Tim smiles sadly and shakes his head.

“I heard him, Damian,” he returns. “Jason and Dick… they convinced him that I do not belong with you and― and quite frankly, they're right. I am just a replacement for the Tim Drake that B lost and that… that probably isn't _healthy_ for him.”

Damian's arms unfurl just a little as Tim continues on: “B he… he didn't think things _through._ He is still grieving, even after all this time, and… and I was just kind of… _there._ I was willing and his offer didn't sound so bad at the time, but even before we left my universe, I knew. I knew it wouldn't last. _”_

_It never would. Not for Tim._

“Besides,” he finishes, finally. “This was my plan all along. To find… to find Conner and Bart―and the rest of the Teen Titans in this world, if they existed at all; that was my plan all along.”

Tim shoots Garfield a look of indefatigability, feeling a swell of purpose and determination rise up in his chest. A small part of him wonders for a moment about the meaning of fate―whether it truly exists or not. The Teen Titan's of this universe might not be whole anymore, but that doesn't mean Tim is ready to give up on them. Not yet, not _ever._ Not while he still breathes.

If destiny was something he believed in he might say that perhaps this was the reason he was brought into this universe, that his purpose is to bring the Titans back together. Tim doesn't honestly _believe_ it, but it sure is a nice idea. It still feels good to have a sense of importance again, a drive to do and be something more than just the son no one is missing.

The strange, oddly confused look he receives from Garfield in return holds only a candle-flame's worth of hope, but it's a spark, and it's enough.

To his right, Damian huffs, an indecipherable expression on his face, though his features are still decidedly grim. It's proof how much more mature this version of the boy is that he doesn't fight Tim―or perhaps he just doesn't know _how_. Regardless, there comes no tantrum or fuss from him.

“Then I suppose,” says the younger, “that you cannot be dissuaded from this path?”

Tim juts out his chin and returns the look of resignation with one of steel and obstinacy as he shakes his head slowly, side to side.

“Very well,” Damian sighs, though it sounds more like a huff, like he has made up his mind. The boy throws his hands on his hips and puffs up his chest with as much doggedness as what Tim suspects is in his own posture. “Then I shall accompany you in finding the rest of these _Teen Titans.”_

Garfield's jaw drops.

“ _You?”_ he gapes. “You're just a little kid!”

Tim smacks his whole palm against his forehead and drags it down his face as Damian, filled with outrage and umbrage, launches into a zealous spiel citing qualifications for this mission or any other, accompanied by several rather creative insults that Tim half wishes he had come up with himself.

Garfield looks half amused at how apparently easy it is to get a rise out of the smallest Wayne.

“ _Enough,”_ Tim cuts in eventually, interrupting Damian's tirade mid-insult and squaring off his shoulders, turning to fully face Garfield again. “You said Conner was living with Lex now. Do you know where? Is it possible to meet with him?”

Gar drops his gaze to the floor and shakes his head once, sadly.

“I… I tried calling him,” he says, speaking very quietly, so much so that Tim has to suddenly step closer to make out any of the words. “Multiple times, actually. Conner only picked up once, and… and he just told me to stop calling. I kept trying, of course, but after that he never picked up. Eventually I guess I… admitted defeat. I gave up.”

Tim's heart goes out to Gar; he cannot imagine how horrible that must have felt.

“He won't talk to me,” the green teen continues, “probably because I remind him of this place and of… well. It doesn't matter.”

There's a long pause, then, and unspoken conversation topics swirl in the silence, but Tim is too scared to dare broach them. When Garfield looks up again, Tim isn't expecting the new-found fierceness in his emerald tinted irises, nor to be suddenly struck by how much taller and wiser this Garfield seems than the one in his own universe. What this Beast Boy has been through is enough, he has suffered significantly.

“I've got _you_ now,” he upholds, like Tim is something valuable or precious. “And Conner might not want to talk to me, but I _know_ he will want to talk to you.”

Damian quirks an eyebrow and just barely seems to hold back an eye-roll―the kid, or at least this version of him, doesn't seem _allergic_ to feelings, but he most certainly is his father's son.

“You said he refuses to pick up your phone calls,” Damian says tightly as he furrows his brow, trying to puzzle the problem through piece by piece. “So how on earth are we supposed to make contact with this _Conner_ , hm?”

“If he won't answer us, we will just have to go to him,” Tim replies, balling his hands and chewing his lower lip, thoughts already racing.

Garfield catches on quickly. “To Metropolis?” he says, though given the rising intonation it sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Exactly,” replies Tim with a sharp nod. “Luthor likely won't ever move away from Metropolis―the man is too invested there. And wherever Lex is, Conner won't be too far away.”

“Who even is this person anyway,” Damian interjects arms sliding across his chest, lips twisted up in a way that makes him look like a child, pouting. It strikes Tim that this same look on the Damian of his own universe never would have elicited such a fond swell of emotion―the kid might be growing on him. This version of him, anyway. “And why is he so important?”

For a fleeting second he feels a rush of guilt, remorse for not trying just that _little_ bit harder with the youngest Wayne in his own world. Maybe he should have put in a little more effort, attempted to see things _his_ way rather than demanding Damian fit into the rules and regulations of the manor from the get-go when he had still been out of his element.

“In my universe,” Tim explains, unable to keep the hint of fondness out, though still feeling oddly bemused by it nonetheless. “Kon―Conner Kent―he was the product of a genetics experiment by Lex Luthor which combined Superman's DNA with Luthor's own… and. And he was also my best friend.”

Gar releases a long, quiet breath and his whole posture seems to coil as tightly as a snake when he turns away, strong, unidentifiable emotions rapidly sliding through him one after another like the too-fast flickering of a camera-shutter, capturing every emotion and through minute twitches and subtle jerks.

Damian studies Tim's face for a long time before he merely replies, “I see.” It makes Tim wonder _what_ the boy sees, what kinds of emotions have managed to seep through the fortified fortress that is his well-used façade of rock and iron. The expression once used to keep Bruce out of the know and Dick off his back doesn't seem to fool either Damian or Garfield, but that thought leads to a whole different series of hard emotions that Tim just doesn't have the emotional grounding to open today. Or ever.

“Are you out of your mind?” Damian continues, jaw held tight and rigid as he speaks. “Confronting a _meta-human?”_

A frown leaps onto Tim's face and he drops his jaw to correct Damian's understanding of who Conner fundamentally _is―_ he's a hero! Conner is― _was―_ Superboy. But the younger continues before Tim even gets the chance to jump in, voice a little louder, more authoritative and with caution lurking in the undertones.

“Do you realise what kind of danger we would be going into?” he asks, timbre bolder and volume rising the longer he speaks. “Neither of you have _any_ idea what we would be walking into or what kind of reception we would receive from this half-breed Kryptonian. Judging based on what information we have so far, I am inclined to believe we will be smears on the asphalt before we are able to even assert our intentions―which are, by the way, an attempt at coercion to return this Conner Kent to your band of merry little heroes.”  
  
“No, listen, Damian you don't understand―” Tim tries to interrupt, keeping his voice as calm and as soft as he can make it. Though he isn't wearing the familiar cowl and kevlar, he feels for a moment as though he's shed the skin of Timothy Drake and donned the armor of Red Robin; it's like talking down a hostage situation or comforting a child at a crime scene. Actually, it feels a little like both combined, all neatly wrapped up in a burrito for Tim to chew on until he either manages to swallow the situation or chokes on the chipotle spice.

“ _No,”_ argues Damian through almost gritted teeth, despite the fact that his voice is near to shouting. He has suddenly learned to spit poison and has no other desire than to dislodge all the venom that has settled beside his heart. Underneath it all, though, Tim can see the edge of desperation. He just has to tease out the reason for it before Damian hits a little too close to home―he never was particularly good at that with the version in his own universe, but maybe this time, it will be different.

“ _No,”_ the boy snarls again. “It is _you_ who does not understand, Timothy. You are _reckless_ and have little regard for your own life. I never was able to meet the Timothy Drake that my father loved so much, but I am not about to let you throw away your life like _he_ did.”

Tim's breath hitches in his throat; a reply halfway to his lips before it stops dead in its tracks and refuses to go any further. Most of him absolutely refuses to believe _Conner_ could hurt them, but the part of him that has been betrayed one time to many knows it is a possibility. Batman always taught him to be prepared. If there was one lesson that Bruce imparted upon him, it was that.

“Conner has a weakness,” he blurts out, allaying the next angry tirade Damian is obviously gearing up for. It takes only those four words to catch and hold the boy's attention. There are many differences between this Damian and the one in his own universe, but they were both raised in The League of Assassins―and Tim knows how The League thinks, how _Damian_ thinks.

“Tim, _no―”_ Garfield pleads, shaking his head in disbelief. “Conner might live with Lex now, but he would _never_ hurt us! Conner is our _friend!”_

“Friends can betray you,” Damian snaps, the statement rather ominous, though he nods for Tim to continue. “It is also not inconceivable that he has not already done so, given that he lives with the infamous villain Lex Luthor.”

Tim takes a deep breath and wonders if there is a story behind Damian's statement or if the notion is simply something learned from Bruce. A part of him is curious to know how much the kid knows about Batman's old rogues gallery.

Meanwhile, Garfield's face sinks, unable to understand how _Tim_ _c_ ould ever believe the Titans would betray one another. It is dispiriting for Tim to come to the conclusion that Garfield might not be able to separate the Tim he knew from the one standing before him now, but not altogether unsurprising.

“So Conner is half Kryptonian,” he starts, working through his thoughts out loud. “Which means he shares the very same weakness as Superman: Kryptonite.”

Damian's eyes narrow and his folded arms push in just that little bit closer to his chest, making him look nervous and uncomfortable to the trained eye.

“Kryptonite?” he asks, sounding just the smallest bit ashamed that he doesn't know what that is.

Tim knows how uncomfortable that can be. Having all the facts can be a matter of life and death, and though Damian hasn't faced League training in years and never donned the mantle of Robin, it probably still feels uncomfortable knowing less than the rest in the room.

“It's a radioactive rock,” Tim explains, gesturing outwards with his arms. “It glows a lurid green and is the only thing known to incapacitate Superman. It has a similar effect on Conner, though to a lesser degree because he is still half human.”

Damian's hard stare feels more like a cold glare, even when he rolls his eyes and scoffs: “Great, and I am _sure_ you just have some of this _'Kryptonite'_ lying around somewhere?”

“B has some. At least he used to, in the Batcave,” Tim muses aloud, tapping his chin with one finger.

Damian stands a little straighter, arms hastily unfolding. “You would be willing to return home in order to get this rock?”

Tim feels his mouth twist uncomfortably. “Only if there is no other choice,” he agrees, though it feels like some kind of admission. The thought of returning to the manor scratches at something very raw and infected inside his heart, but he could be in and out without anyone the wiser. It is unfortunate that the Tim in this universe likely died before he managed to set up any emergency plans for rogue superheroes. The Tim of this universe would have still trusted Batman whole-heartedly to have contingencies―and not once doubted his place at Batman's side.

Tim straightens and drags his thoughts out of the shadows where there are too many narrow alleys for them to travel down.

“I have to see Conner,” he says, voice stronger than he feels. “I have to _try_. Even… even if he refuses to come back to the Titans, at the very least I think we ought to know why. I need to know he is safe and… and _happy.”_

There must be something Damian sees in his expression, for the boy releases a puff of air and deflates, a little like a spiky puffer-fish.

“Very well,” he agrees reluctantly, a hint of leftover mulishness in his tone. “Very well. We will find this _Conner_ and these other Teen Titans. I will fetch the rock for you.”

Tim blinks in surprise, eyebrows rising into his hairline as the single, astonished word drops out of his mouth.

“ _You?”_ he startles. “You're going to get the Kryptonite from the Batcave?”

Damian sticks his nose up in the air and sniffs, clearly offended. “Yes,” he replies. “Of course. Neither you nor this under-ripe onion have any idea about the security Father installed after I came to live with him.”

Tim's eyebrows come down slowly, but they mash together into a frown of confusion, his lips pressing together tightly. Something isn't right, he notices then, though it takes him a moment to recognise why. When he gets it, it hits him like a freight-train; the idea that this Damian and his own would have the exact same tells had never crossed him mind before. Until now.

Very briefly, Damian's hand comes up to cup the back of his head almost _sheepishly_ and he turns his gaze to the couch, obviously directing it anywhere but at Tim. The expression that comes upon his face might be called _embarrassment_ on anyone else, but it's _Damian_ , so it still holds an air of haughty decorum even as he shuffles his weight from one foot to the other. The acting is very good, even Tim has to admit. _Perhaps Jason instilled his love of theatre into the boy, they certainly seemed closer in this universe._

“I may have… been a handful for him when I first arrived…” he admits, fingernails of his right hand jumping up to scratch at the fine baby hairs on the back of his neck. “And he was poorly equipped to deal with my 'antics' as Richard called them… especially after Timothy's passing. It… it has only been most recently that Father and I have truly grown what I would perhaps deign as _closer_. Richard was the one who took the brunt of my first few years living in the manor. Father wanted nothing to do with me. All he would ever do was compare me to _him,_ to Timothy.”

Although Tim wants to say something insightful and meaningful and sympathetic, he simply cannot. The sob story is almost too much, even for him. Perhaps if Tim were anyone else… Still, simultaneously, he knows it isn't a lie―it is fortunate that the truth suits Damian's purpose.

It takes Tim's mind a long minute to reboot as he sorts through all the information Damian has unwittingly gifted him and then he files it away for later.

“So I will get this rock for you,” Damian asserts, his voice almost challenging Tim to argue. “I will get the rock for you and we will find these Teen Titans together. Then, you can return to your family.”

The declaration, so final and firm, makes something sour curdle in Tim's heart. _What family?_

“Damian, I already told you―” he begins, bracing himself for the altercation to come. Expecting backlash that might border on violent. Tim won't go back. He _can't._ Rejection burns like a brand, his skin already littered with red hot marks and scorched flesh; Tim doesn't dare go near fire again.It had taken a while, but that lesson had finally sunk in.

Before Tim can say anything more, however, Damian takes the small hand that was previously scratching at the back of his neck and raises it in a mollifying manner.

“I did not mean to the manor, nor to your previous universe,” he explains, “I only meant that with your Teen Titans reunited, you will have back those people who you have willingly called family.”

Tim feels pinpricks pressing at the back of his eyes, but he says nothing and blinks furiously to keep the tell-tale sign of tears held back. If this were the other Damian, Tim might wonder if the boy was only saying these things in order to push him away―but there's an obscured sense of candour in Damian's tone that seems out of place in the boy's acting and well-spun lie.

“At least you will have them until you decide you are ready to come home,” he says, arching a rather pointed, Alfred-esque eyebrow at him. “Though I am still going to prove to you that the manor is where you belong, so this entire effort will be futile.”

Tim presses his lips together tightly to hold back the wry, humourless smile aching to creep onto his lips. It's halfway endearing that Damian believes he can convince Tim that returning to the manor―where he will inevitably be unceremoniously dumped back into his own universe. The other half of him simply finds it depressing, especially given the farce the boy is presenting as honesty.

Tim's forehead squishes up tightly and he feels how dry his skin is when he finally releases the expression with a sigh, feeling somehow more exhausted than before his nap.

“Fine,” he exhales through clenched teeth. “I suppose I will be hard pressed to find a chunk of Kryptonite anywhere else…”

Damian's face lights up in a satisfied grin that could rival that of the Cheshire cat. “Excellent,” he smiles, sounding far too smug for Tim's liking, though he lets it go. “Then I suppose we should best get on with it.”

“A regular flight will take you too long,” Tim says, straightening to his full height and suddenly, inexplicably, very much feeling the familiar sensation of leadership crawl up through his veins, one inch at a time. “There's a plane in the basement, I believe,” he continues, glancing at Garfield who gives a single, firm nod. “Do you know how to fly a plane?”

Damian snorts and in the sound Tim can hear his own Damian once again.

“Of course,” says the boy with a proud, dismissive huff. “I can be there and back again by tomorrow morning.”

To his right, Tim can see Garfield's disapproving frown from his peripheral. With Damian in the room, Tim knows he won't say anything, but there's clearly something on his mind, bothering him.

“Batman keeps the Kryptonite in the safe behind the dinosaur,” Tim informs, ignoring the slowly intensifying stare from Beast Boy. “Do you know where that is? It's green and it'll be glowing.”

Damian quirks a single eyebrow and pats his chest a total of twice, haughtily interrupting with: “Yes, Timothy. You may count on me to ensure the plan goes smoothly.”

Tim smiles then, only briefly wondering if Damian can tell it is fake. Unlikely. Not even in his own universe could Damian read his tells unless he wanted the boy too, and he'd only become better at acting the emotions people _wanted_ to see as Damian had ingrained himself more and more into the family and Tim had been thrust out.

“Alright,” he says as he holds Damian in place the same way Bruce used to for him, clapping his palm atop the boy's shoulder and giving it a squeeze to really sell the act. “We're counting on you Damian.”

The boy gives a nod that's more like a salute before slipping out from under Tim's hand with a determined, but soft: “Farewell. I will return with the utmost haste.”

Neither Tim nor Garfield move a muscle until at least a minute after the elevator doors have shut.

“You know…” says Gar, interrupting the silence as he shuffles half an inch closer. “You _are_ aware that The Tower was equipped to handle Superboy if he ever went rogue?”

Tim nods and finally blinks his gaze away from the closed elevator doors that stand without a sign of Damian's entrance, turning to Garfield, world-worn and weary.

“Yes.” His shoulders droop as he takes off the mantle of leader and brother and just for a moment falls back into regular old Tim. “Damian has plans to inform Bruce of our whereabouts.”

Garfield blinks. Then, “Oh.”

“Yeah. If the Timothy Drake of this universe was as prepared as I was―and based on current evidence, I feel assured that he was―there's a chunk of Kryptonite in the lead-lined box in the locker room.”

“So… we're going to Metropolis without him?”

Tim nods once, the action sharp. “By the time he gets back here with Bruce, we'll be long gone.”

Garfield's forehead furrows, crinkling up with confusion.

“He took the plane, though,” says the green teen. “How are we going to get there?”

A grin pulls at the side of Tim's lips. “The Zeta Tube in the Batcave might be disabled, but I'd bet money no one bothered to do that for the Tower.”

After a moment's pause, Garfield catches on and soon his expression is matching Tim's.

“C'mon,” he says with a slight tip of his head and a beckoning gesture, jungle green lips twisting up in a smirk. “Let's get that box and then get out of here, before the kid gets back.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan to get Conner does not go smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! ❤️ I'm not dead, as you can see, but yes this chapter is a week late 😔 ￣へ￣. It is also un-beta'd so any mistakes you see are 100% fresh takes.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Prudence isn't completely sure how she ends up in the seat next to Batman, cowl down and completely silent. The man is the personification of stoicism, but Pru's never been a fan of people whom she couldn't read._

“ _So,” she tries slowly, needing to engage the man in conversation, if only just to check he's not actually sleeping with his eyes open. “I guess we've not officially met, huh. You're the infamous Batman.”_

_It's lame. It sounds lame even to her. The critical eye he turns on her does nothing to inspire confidence._

“ _I am,” he returns, gaze narrowing infinitesimally._

_Prudence chuckles, though mostly out of nervousness. “You gave―no,_ give _, Ra's a lot of trouble, you know.”_

_The slightest twitch of the man's chin is the only indication he has heard, but it's enough to keep her going._

“ _I… I was loyal to him for a long time. I remember him talking about you a lot.” There's no clear indication of it and she can't be sure why, but Pru suddenly knows she has his full attention, despite his acting as disinterested as a dog to a fly. “I suppose the beginning of the end of my time with him was probably when I met Tim, actually.” And Pru can smell the desert air, feel the heat of the sun on her head._

_She grins, attempting to covering up her discomfort, although it doesn't feel entirely successful._

“ _Well, you know what they say,” she continues through too many teeth, too-bright of a smile. “Those who nearly die together, ride together. Or, something like that, I think. I don't know. Tim's the person I get all my millennial slang from.”_

_Pru finishes with a shrug, but doesn't notice the cowl turned entirely her way until a moment later. Batman's―_ Bruce's― _jaw is set like rigid steel, tightly clenched, immovable and uncompromising._

_At first she isn't sure what it is she's said to earn herself such a look from him, a dark scowl poorly masking a layer of anxiety and fear, all hidden beneath an exterior so practiced it's a mask all on it's own._ _But then,_ _“Tim nearly died?”_

_Prudence simply blinks at him, rapidly sifting through all that she's said. Owens always told her she ran her mouth, it's unfortunate she never really was able to break that habit―a poor one for an ex-assassin._

“ _You didn't know?”_

_The words slip without thought, incredulity sprinkled throughout her tone, unable to be hidden or guarded away._

_Impossibly, the man's jaw gets even tighter and it's a wonder he doesn't crack any teeth._

“ _How?” he asks, a single, simple noise that is more grunt than word._

_The cave in the desert comes back to her, the memory searingly branded into her brain if only because of how traumatic and utterly life changing that day had been. She remembers the Jeep and Z by her side, the cold wind of the night whipping at her ankles._

“ _It's a long story, and one that isn't mine to tell.”_

_Attempting to dodge the flashbacks is dancing Batchata with bullets―one foot on a plane to San Francisco and the other in the desert with a boot drenched in blood. “Suffice to say, that is how I lost my voice for several weeks,” she says and, without thinking, reaches up to grace her fingertips over the scar across her throat, the voice modulator inside a heavy reminder of the fateful night. “And how Tim lost his spleen,” she finishes, dropping her hand into her lap and her gaze along with it._

_The plane is quiet, she notices. Too quiet. The rest of the occupants are listening in. They would make poor assassins._

_Batman's voice is barely a broken whisper, dragging her attention back to the white irises of the cowl when he talks. “Tim has no spleen?”_

_There are tones in his voice that Pru cannot name nor recognise, but there is a definite ache of something heart-wrenching in it._

_The act of nodding feels antithetical to her sentence. “It seems as though there is a lot you don't know about Tim.”_

_Disbelieving, he shakes his head in return and makes to clutch his forearms, leaning forward with elbows resting upon his knees._

“ _I didn't know there was so much,” he replies, head hanging. “I've been― I've been away for too long. I've been too preoccupied in preparing for the future that I simply… dismissed the present.”_

_A million things run through Pru's head and heart in what cannot be more than a second. Her hatred for this man, her sympathy for him, but chiefly: “Well, best start fixing things, before they become irreparable.”_

_Batman's head twists to the side, a lost look upon the parts of his exposed face that she can read. Honestly, one would think she had just spoken an alien language._

_Pru rolls her eyes and reaches into the Batbelt before the man can protest. Deftly, and with the grace befitting an ex-assassin, Prudence pulls out the phone she knows is stashed there and slams her finger on the fast dial button before handing it over._

“ _Now you have no excuses,” she says as he looks at her with such a horrified expression that an onlooker might be forgiven for believing she single-handedly nuked the whole country. She answers it with a grin of her own. “You're welcome.”_

* * *

Garfield gathers up a pack before they leave, items most useful and precious to him. Tim watches as he strips the few remaining things emotionally pinning him to the Tower and tucks them between the folds of the bag. There's not much, but while that causes a pang of great sympathy and regret in Tim's chest, it doesn't surprise him―he knows that Garfield's childhood was moving from one place to the next, learning how to pick himself up at a moments notice.

After slipping into his Titan's uniform, now with more excess fabric than Tim is content to see, they depart for Metropolis.

The Zeta Tube thrusts them out at the corresponding gateway, located in a fenced off cavern in a mid-town park. Some say that Metropolis is the city that never sleeps. That her coruscating neons always hang bright and sparkle against the midnight sky, drawing in the wide eyes of tourists. However, in the middle of the great park, the whole world has come to a standstill. The blaring horns of taxicabs and the shouting of street vendors feels an entire world away amidst the serenity found in the center of the greenscape.

Garfield is the first to jump off the platform and plant his feet into solid, compact dirt, with Tim not far behind. The circular gateway they come through is obviously dilapidated. Tim turns his head as the machine powers down, leaving no signs that it was active just moments before. There are fallen rocks scattered about the cave and the metal on the outside of the gateway is slightly bent on one side, indicating a rockfall at some point in the past.

_It's been a long time since anyone has used the Metropolis Zeta Tube,_ he thinks. If any of the Justice League or the Titans had come this way, the damage would have been noticed and fixed within twenty-four hours. As it stands, the damage looks old and there is rust from cave-water that looks as though it has steadily spreading over time.

The cave smells damp and faintly of rot and mildew. If he tries, Tim might even manage to fool himself into thinking it smelled like the Batcave, but the defining difference is that there is no faint stench of living creatures hanging in the stale, unventilated space. The air is a touch hotter too, mildly warmer than that of the lair under Wayne Manor. There is a weak, but steady drip. Water, reverberating off the rocky walls, the noise echoing out from much deeper within the cave.

Tim can see the light of dusk peaking in through an opening―the cave entrance, he presumes, though the rockfall has had a significant impact upon that as well. Large, bolder-sized rocks sit still at their feet, as though proclaiming they have always been there, despite the surrounding damage telling a different story.

“There used to be steps here,” Garfield claims, his index finger tracing a line up to the cave entrance, now completely covered in fallen debris. If Tim squints, he thinks he can make out a few of the steps through the rubble and dust. There's a touch of sadness in the other teen's voice as he echoes Tim's previous thoughts. “I don't think anyone has been down here a while.”

Feet kicking up tiny clouds of dirt as he makes his way over to the bigger boulders blocking the way out, Tim splays his palms on the surface of the largest one and angles his body to better make out what is left of the entrance.

“How are we supposed to get out of here?” he asks, a little hopelessly.

Garfield hums only a moment before answering: “I could transform into a bird and fly out, but that doesn't exactly help _you.”_

Tim shakes his head. “It wouldn't help you either. You're wearing a backpack,” he points out. “And last time I checked, birds can't fly when weighed down with human-sized bags.”

“Fair,” Beast Boy acknowledges, tipping his head to the side in a gesture of acquiescence and turning his palms out, stopping just short of shrugging. “Maybe I can clear the rocks, then? It might take a little longer, but perhaps it is the safest way.”

The thought that they could attempt to climb out over the rocks briefly flashes through Tim's mind, but it is dismissed just as quickly. Sure, he doesn't exactly want to be in this cave for any longer than he has to be, but getting injured while climbing out of a cave would simply set them back even further in their search for the remainder of the Teen Titans. Looking for handholds in the rock while it is so dim is a recipe for disaster and would be a stupid risk―Tim's isn't Jason: _shoot first ask questions later._ Or Dick: _leap first and figure it out on the way down._ Nor Damian: _act without thought of consequence._ If anything, Tim is most like Bruce, always preparing for the worst case scenario. Perhaps, he cannot help but muse, their similarities were what drove such a wedge between them. Maybe when Bruce looked at him, all he saw was how Tim―hollow as a child―had been filled with all the parts of Bruce he hadn't wanted to pass on.

Tim scratches at his eyebrow and then drags the tips of his fingers across his forehead, a habit for clearing off the perpetual frown he knows constantly wears. “How would you do that?”

Garfield squints at the rocks. “I could transform into a rhinoceros, perhaps. Smash the boulders out the way?”

“What if one of the rocks goes flying and shatters the Zeta Tube?” he returns, shaking his head. “No, I don't think that is a good idea.”

This time, Gar bites his lips, staring a little harder at the fallen rocks. “A Silver-back Gorilla instead,” he states with a satisfied nod. “They can lift over twice their body-weight and are stronger than twenty men.”

Tim grins and nods enthusiastically. “Perfect,” he exclaims. “We can stack the rocks against the walls, that way they'll have no chance of falling into the gateway and we'll be able to come and go from Metropolis as we please.”

They set to work immediately, Garfield moving the largest boulders and Tim moving the smaller, neither of them speaking a word to one another as sweat forms on their brows. They are careful not to jostle the stones too much, just in case they trigger another rockfall by accident, but they struggle to work quickly against the fading light. Only a small part of Tim worries that they will not make it out of the cave before Damian and Bruce return to the Titans Tower. Eventually one of them will come to the conclusion that the Zeta Tube was recently activated and it would be no more than a simple task for Bruce to pinpoint the location the gateway dropped them at.

By the time the steps are mostly cleared of rocks, both he and Garfield are hungry and thirsty and exhausted, but once Beast Boy transforms back into his humanoid self they hi-five and grin at each other anyway―giving silent, out of breath praise for a job well-done before they climb out of the cave.

The sun has set, only the dim glow of a park light illuminating their way now. The cool, fresh night air feels good on Tim's face and he savours the breeze by inhaling deeply and then expelling it all out again. After finally releasing the savoured moment of freedom, he turns to Garfield who has his hands on his hips and is grinning broadly at a little moth tapping against the lamp-post glass.

“Good teamwork,” Tim says, rolling his aching shoulders before giving the other teen a flash of a smile.

Garfield turns, though his grin never fades. “Yeah,” he agrees, breathless, though he stopped panting from exertion a while ago. “It… it feels good to… to be needed again.”

Pity must mar Tim's face, because Beast Boy's grin drops off his face like a heavy stone sinking in a pond. “Sorry,” he quickly adds, apologetically. “That was… never mind. Forget it.”

“No,” Tim disagrees, shaking his head and aborting a step halfway. “I understand, Gar.”

The green teen studies his face for a moment, the smile slowly returning, though duller than before. “I know you do,” he commiserates sadly. “Else I know you wouldn't be here with me, in this universe.”

Suddenly, Garfield makes a weird movement, almost like that of a dog, shaking off water from its coat. Then, he straightens, and his eyes cover with a glaze of determination.

“So,” he begins anew. “What's the next step? Where do we go from here?”

Tim gives a nod, acknowledging the moment now past and ushering in the question. “LexCorp,” he states. “If we're going to get inside and get Conner out, I need to be close to the building when I hack their security.”

“Great,” Garfield says with too much false enthusiasm, gesturing out both arms with childlike glee. “I've always wanted to see inside that place.” He almost _skips_ closer, passing Tim with a finger outstretched and a: “C'mon then, no time to waste. LexCorp is this way. Uh, I think?”

Tim pulls up the GPS on his gauntlet anyway, just in case, and leads them out of the park. They pass a few evening joggers who ogle rather obviously, as well as a vagrant who barely takes one glance at them before rolling his eyes and heckling. “It's not Halloween, freaks!”

Quirking an eyebrow to that, Tim would not have noticed the flinch from Garfield had he not physically jerked, as though burned. They pass the man without a word spoken to him, but the minute they are out of earshot he asks: “Have people always been this hostile to teenage superheroes in your universe?”

Gar presses his lips together tightly a moment. “Not just teenage superheroes,” he admits on a whispered breath after a long, silent moment, expelling the bubble of oxygen in his chest with a heavy sigh. “No heroes are welcome in Metropolis.”

A frown dips Tim's forehead, creasing it. “Doesn't Superman still live here?” he asks, puzzled.

Garfield just shrugs. “I don't know. Possibly? No one has seen him in a long time. Not after…”

“After what?” he presses, confusion and concern warring for dominance in his voice. “Gar, what aren't you telling me?”

Though they never stop walking towards the park exit, Beast Boy scuffs his shoe on the path and kicks a wayward stone into a bush before answering.

“Do you remember how I said that Batman left The League?” he starts, eventually, still not meeting Tim's eyes though he lifts his head and stares straightforward at the lamps guiding their way. “And that Superman kind of… well, he―he kind lost it? Not like, badly,” he quickly reassures, “but it was enough.”

Tim fiddles with his gloves and tries to resist the urge to push―to find out more, to know more, to gather the intel, but he knows from experience that waiting for the results usually yields them with kinder results.

“There was an accident,” Gar says, scuffing his boots against the path pavement, eyes dropping to inspect the few fallen leaves. “A bad one.”

The air in Tim's lungs freezes.

“It started out pretty standard, you know? Sure, Batman had left The League, but everyone understood. It came as a shock, but no one tried to stop him. Then there was some mad scientist, released a dozen or so killer robots in Metropolis. Again, not too unusual, but I guess everyone thought Superman had taken Batman's resignation better than he actually did.

Long story short, he nearly destroyed half of the city trying to reign the robots in. It was recklessness, plain as day. I don't know what happened as far as The League is concerned after that, but a lot of people got hurt.

Naturally, Luthor called for sanctions on The League―said they were too dangerous to operate unrestricted. Got his way, of course, as Lex tends to. I suppose he thought he was on a roll, because… because he went after Conner next.”

Tim's lungs are near to bursting. His chest is coiled, tight and rigid with anxiety thrumming through every bone. He dares not breathe, though. Too transfixed on Beast Boy's words, hoping for an outcome that doesn't leave him feeling like he's stuck out in the ocean, swimming against the tide.

“Lex took Superman to court,” Garfield snorts, accompanied by a mirthless, heart-broken chuckle. “As weird as that sounds.”

“ _What?”_ Tim whispers, breathless, as all the air caught in his throat comes out at once.

Gar nods. “Yeah. For custody of Superboy. There was a DNA sample involved, irrefutable proof of who Superboy's second parent was. There was enough evidence, let's just say that. Luthor won the case. Claimed that Superman had stolen his DNA to create Conner and―”

“What?!” Tim repeats, louder this time, the beginnings of rage stirring in his stomach. “How could anyone possibly believe that? It's completely ridiculous! Why would anyone think that _Superman_ had done the DNA stealing? Why would anyone choose _Luthor_ to steal DNA from anyway?”

Garfield offers him a wry smile, then, softly, “Lex claimed Superman did it in order to get Conner to inherit his fortune. Somehow convinced the jury that Superman wanted his money. And, well, after the whole _destroying-half-the-town-and-killer-robots_ incident, Metropolis as a whole was… not exactly on Supe's side.”

It's unbelievable. For a minute, all Tim wants to do is laugh. Say it's _impossible_. That Metropolis must have lost their collective minds. Except, the fact that Conner is living with Lex Luthor is all the evidence he needs.

“I haven't really spoken to Conner since before the court case,” Garfield finishes quietly, just as they round a corner and Tim spies the park exit to their right. “I don't know if it was me or… or if he just didn't want to talk to any of us after… well.”

Tim nods, understanding. Talking about the past is hard and painful for Garfield, and Tim all too well can relate. If a random Beast Boy simply dropped into Tim's universe and started asking questions about _his_ Conner, he's sure he wouldn't be half as patient as Garfield is being with him.

The rest of their journey through Metropolis to the LexCorp building is in silence, with only the occasional whip of cold breeze whistling past Tim's ear. The pair of them receive a few stares from people passing by, but none are bold enough say anything to their faces unlike the wayfarer in the park. Tim is thankful for it. As a Bat, he is used to suspicion and sometimes even hostility from those he is out to save and protect. However, in the Gotham he is familiar with, there is still an unspoken gratitude from its citizens.

As a city, Metropolis is, by in large, much brighter than Gotham―even during the night. Street lights seem like spotlights in comparison to the dim, flickers that the yellow-orange lamps in Gotham give off. To any onlooker, the two of them would appear to vanish without a trace after rounding past the bus shelter with its brightly lit energy drink advertisement on one side and a large, blown up article on the other.

It's a Daily Planet piece, Tim notes as his eyes catch on the logo, then the headline, his feet jerking to a sharp, snapped halt that has his knees protesting at its swiftness.

Garfield comes to an abrupt stop two steps ahead of him, quickly realising Tim's absence by his side and half-turning to search for him. “Robin?” he questions, the old appellation jolting Tim back into an awareness he hadn't been aware he'd slipped from.

“Sorry.” Tim smiles back at him, a poor attempt at reassurance, though the expression is made up of melancholy sorrow, rather than humour. It's paper thin anyway. “Got distracted,” he says, pointing a finger at the enlarged article as Garfield closes the gap between them to view it with his own eyes.

Tim watches Garfield's face as he speaks the headline aloud rather than facing it himself once more. _Conner's face is plastered across his vision and he just…_ Tim sucks in a deep breath and tries not to let it waver as he exhales again, though he is only partially successful.

“ _Luthor and son to donate 6 million dollars to medical research building,”_ Garfield reads, a lemon in his mouth, pinching the sides of his face more sharply with every word. _“Unveiling ceremony to be held on the fourth of August at CADMUS research facility_ ―oh, that's tomorrow!”

Throat abruptly feeling raspy, raw and scratchy with sandpaper, Tim nods and makes an effort to swallow past the dryness.

With little more to say on the topic, Tim kicks his feet into gear once more and Garfield sends the poster one final parting glance before jogging to catch up. Neither of them say anything else, unspoken hopes and prayers like silent graves between them. Only to the deepest parts of himself will Tim admit that he doesn't think the event will go on after tonight, but he doesn't dare say it out loud in case the universe decides to rear its malicious fangs― _in case Conner chooses not to come back to them, back to the Titans. Back to the family that Tim still bullheadedly clings to―because if he doesn't, then what does he have left?_

The two of them slink down a back-alley that smells strongly of deep-fried Chinese food, barely a block from LexCorp tower in the business district of the city. From where they are, Tim can even see the large spherical shape of the ball atop the Daily Planet tower and he briefly wonders if Clark still works there despite the citizens discontent with Superman.

Raccoons and rats have strewn the trash from the dumpsters about the ginnel and Tim tries to avoid the murkier puddles. Garfield leans up against the a dirty red-brick wall that wouldn't look out of place in Gotham, arms folded across his chest and one leg lazily kicked over the other in a look that fools the eye into thinking he's relaxed.

“What now?” he asks as Tim squats behind two metal crates, a brave-hearted weed growing up and out from between the cracks in the concrete.

Flicking open the shield on his wrist, Tim boosts up the computer built into his gauntlet and settles his back against the opposite wall as he begins hacking into the security of the building barely a block away, taking out one security feed at a time and huffing a sigh that Lex is too clever to have his security cameras all on one feed; it makes things much more tedious, if anything else.

“ _Now_ ,” he says, “you wait while I hack. This might take a while, Luthor is clever and if the security detects any anomalous presence, I'll be shut out and right back to square one.”

When Tim glances up for just the briefest of seconds, Garfield's forehead is crinkled up in a small but noticeable display of worry.

“You think you can do it?” he asks, voice small though it holds not the disbelief in Tim as the words might otherwise imply. It's heartening, strangely. Garfield truly believes in him. “You can get us in?”

Behind the domino lens, Tim blinks and then nods once, adding: “Trust me, this is nothing compared to what I've hacked in the past. Luthor might be a deadly lion, but I've survived courts containing owls and counsels comprised of spiders. He's nothing in comparison.”

They're together in companionable silence for a while after that, the ambient sounds of Metropolis keeping them company as Tim taps away on his gauntlet, taking down security feeds one at a time, slowly wending his way through the building as an invisible string of deadly code.

It stays that way until Garfield shifts in position twenty minutes later, pushing away from the red brick wall and sliding into a subtly defensive stance, languorous and loose to the untrained eye. The passage of time is something Tim's neglected to note up till now, but the tiny change is enough to have him slowly reaching for the weapon strapped to his back, the familiarity of the weight against his palm soothing in an odd way.

“I think you boys might be lost,” Garfield tries with a voice made of gravel and textured with a roughness that makes him sound older and more threatening than the Beast Boy in his own universe could ever sound. “Why don't you turn around now and head on back the way you came.”

Tim sinks lower behind the metal crates as a bark of hoarse, smoke-damaged laughter comes in return.

“Oh, we're lost now are we?” says the coarse voice, amusement doing little to hide the underlying threat. “You 'ear that? We're _lost,_ apparently.”

Two more voices chuckle. One tinny and pitched higher, though still undoubtedly male, while the other more ambiguous; nasal, and with several accompanying snorts through the nose. Three assailants then, Tim counts. _Untrained thugs._ Out looking for a fight or maybe on their way home from something else.

“ _Yeah,_ that's right,” Garfield continues, boldly taking half a step forward and puffing out his chest in a move Tim is one-hundred percent sure he's never seen his counterpart perform. It's a subtle difference between the two Beast Boy's, but it's there. Neither of them have ever lived in a world comprised of roses, daisies, and happy family's, but somehow _this_ Garfield has a sharper edge to him, honed by the whetstone of hurt and sorrow. “So why don't you just turn around nice and slow there and no one needs to get hurt, okay?”

Another bark of laughter splits the night air, but it's sharper, _harsher_.

“Listen here you little _freak_ ,” says the same cigarette roughened voice. “You've got some _nerve_ making threats against us.”

By the way Garfield angles sharply, Tim can tell the three thugs are on the move, likely advancing in a pattern that would give them the best advantage against a solo fighter. _Good, that means that Tim still has the element of surprise._

“Not a threat,” Garfield returns, the barest hint of venom in his voice, leaking danger like a poorly plugged vat in a dingy old warehouse as he tosses his backpack in Tim's vague direction. “A promise.”

One of the assailants, the closest one to him, Tim determines, steps in a puddle that must be less than four feet away, right before the first man barks: “Get 'im.”

Garfield ducks a single flying fist before he transforms into a grizzly bear, rearing up onto his back legs with an enormous, ground-shaking growl. Tim makes his presence known with a battle cry, swinging over the metal crates and launching himself feet first at the attacker closest to him. The cool night air slices through his hair and, for a flash, exhilaration sings through his body like a live, electric current. _Titans together,_ his mind supplies as his flying kick lands squarely in the chest of the bandit, the force of it sending him flying.

The man skids a few feet across the asphalt of the alley, no doubt cutting up the backside of his clothes and likely ripping them to shreds, but he doesn't move, despite being conscious.

Tim wastes not a single moment. Picking himself up, he closes the gap between them in just a few strides, keenly aware of the shadow he casts over the man. To the ruffian's credit, he doesn't see fear in the man's eyes when he looks down.

“You… little… shit…” the man spits with vile anger, wheezing between the aching, winded gasps, right before Tim knocks him out completely with a swift clunk of a bo-staff against his skull.

With one aggressor down, Tim spins to take in the sight of the other two assailants launching themselves at Garfield. One is knocked to the ground immediately, Beast Boy swiping a heavy paw and sending him flying, but the other manages to get a swipe in before Tim notices the flash of silver. Garfield lets loose a roar of pain and it's loud enough to startle even him.

Tim dives in to take out the third attacker, swinging his bo-staff, but just narrowly missing the man's head. In the left side of his peripherals he sees Garfield transform and stumble away, an enormous knife gash running the entire length of his arm―from shoulder all the way to wrist.

The surprised swear he lets loose, the only sign of it having affected him, is a moment of disorientation which forces his concentration out the window for a split second. Unfortunately, the break is long enough.

The assailant with the knife charges frantically, but blindly, flinging and swiping the knife at random, hoping for a hit like a wild boar charging. At the last moment, Tim is just able to block the knife with the hooked spikes on the underside of his gauntlets, usually used for slowing momentum during an unplanned fall. However, though he manages to send the knife a good five feet into the air and then into a puddle several more feet away before clocking the man around the head and knocking him into unconsciousness, it's not before he notices the damage that the man has done.

“ _No,”_ he cries despairingly, glancing down for the briefest of moments at his wrist-top computer, embedded into his gauntlet. Tim, in his surprise and then in his haste to help Garfield, had neglected to close the security panel before he had engaged in a fight. The knife had made contact and the screen was now split in two, wires poking out from the inside.

Though awash with frustration and a depressing sense of hopelessness, he shoves it all away in favour of dashing over to Garfield, leaning heavily against the same brick wall as before, but this time with an open wound and an arm drenched in thick scarlet.

Beast Boy doesn't acknowledge him except for a single grunt, laced with barely concealed pain.

“Good God,” Tim shakes his head, hands fluttering uselessly up and down. He doesn't know where to start. “This is―” he begins haltingly, then stops and starts anew. “This is really not good, Gar.”

With a lazy eye reminiscent of a loafing lion, Garfield turns his gaze to Tim without a word, and is kind enough not to make some kind of _Captain Obvious_ joke.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, through a tense whine. “I know.”

Tim sucks in a breath of air through his teeth, but doesn't quite feel like the oxygen reaches his brain.

“Did you… hack it, at least?” Garfield manages through well controlled syllables, tight with discipline, though each inhalation he takes is a shallow one.

A lance of anguish pierces through Tim as he shakes his head solemnly and holds up his gauntlet, obviously broken beyond repair. This was not the way things were meant to go. _Why is he completely useless?_

Garfield lifts his good hand and drags it over his face, and Tim is sure he swears quietly through the action. It only compounds the guilt he feels.

“We… we need to treat your arm,” he says, numbly, gesturing to the oozing wound that makes his stomach churn.

Garfield nods, but makes no move to push away from the wall, so Tim gently pushes him down until he's sitting with his legs half-crooked and his injured arm is held out for him to treat.

After fetching Garfield's bag from where it was tossed nearby to the metal crates, Tim pulls out the first aid kit stashed inside and rummages around for the iodine and a torch, along with a roll of bandages. As gently as he can, Tim splashes the iodine along the wound, but Garfield hisses in protest of the pain anyway.

“This wound can't be left like this,” he says softly, wiping up the excess fluid. “This needs stitches. You need a hospital, Gar.”

Through what Tim is sure is a sniffle, the other teen shakes his head vigorously, a determined frown on his features.

“ _No,”_ he rasps out, almost like a gasp. “No hospitals. If it needs stitches, you do it.”

“Gar, I―”

Beast Boy cuts him off. “There's a needle and thread in there somewhere. Find them. Please.”

Tim deliberates for only a moment, catching Garfield's gaze before deciding.

The needle and thread are buried deep, but Tim knows how to do this, he's done it before on both others and himself. The last time would have been… _with Pru._ After the Widower slashed her throat and murdered her team-mates, Owens and Z.

Tim threads the needle and gets on with it, shaking his thoughts out of the past. Garfield, however, beats him to the ultimate question.

“So,” he begins, looking away from where Tim is steadily sewing up the gash along his arm and bravely attempting to ignore each puncture of the needle through his skin, though each pained hiss gives him away. Tim would have offered him painkillers, if they had any effect on Garfield. “So what's the plan now?”

Tim swallows, but it goes down hard as he tries to keep his hands as steady as possible.

“My gauntlet is broken,” he begins, mind sifting through each possibility, discarding one after another until an idea strikes him. “But… but that doesn't mean we can't still get to Conner.”

Garfield turns a curious eye on him as Tim pricks up, ideas whirring, thoughts churning, excitement building as slowly he comes to the conclusion that… _yes, this might work after all!_

“What do you mean?” Garfield asks, hissing when the needle punctures his flesh again. “You've got a plan?”

Tim nods excitedly, pausing a moment in his poor excuse for a suture. “You remember the bus stop―the advertisement?”

With a small frown creasing his brow, Gar allows a single, confused nod. “Yeah,” he says. “What―you want to go up to him in the middle of a public setting, in front of a _crowd_ no less with _Luthor_ there and just say, _'Hey Conner, it's me!'_?”

The thought of it splits Tim's face into a broad grin.

“Exactly!”

Garfield gives him a look that, for a moment, makes Tim truly believe he's grown a second head. Then: “Fine. Fuck it. It's crazy enough that it just might work.”

Hopped up on adrenaline and the excitement of a new plan, Tim nearly jerks out of his skin at the sound of a phone ringing. _Oh, his phone is ringing._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tim,” he says, voice breathy and choked in his ear. “You're alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a month.
> 
> Yep. So. I've been re-drafting the second half of this story. Drafting will continue into October, but we should be back on schedule by November! Thank you for all the support!

_Batman cradles the vibrating phone in his palm and stares at it like a new father cushioning his newborn child; fear warring with wonder―the doubt, the uncertainty, the worry that he'll mess up irreparably._

_A thumb, calloused around the short-bitten nail―just one of many small signs that reveal Bruce Wayne's imperfections, the toll of Tim's absence beginning to visibly show to the observant―hovers over the impression of a dial phone, coloured entirely in red._

_Pressing it would end the call and, for a moment, Pru is convinced he will. However, to her surprise, the wavering, hesitant thumb stills, and then curls back as he gingerly raises his arm, charily pressing the still-ringing phone to his ear._

_Batman looks afraid. Somehow, even in her head, the thought is as jarring as a bright light in the night; such an expression doesn't belong on someone so outwardly stoic. Even with the cowl obscuring most of his face, Pru can see it as plain as day._ _I_ _t is clear that there are many things Bruce wants to say. Apologies, conversations and_ _tête-à-tête_ _s that need to be had in private and with hearts on sleeves._

_The man's tongue darts out just a fraction, licking his bottom lip as he sorts through his emotions and tries to compile them into something resembling words, his breath tight in his chest as he pauses on an inhalation, waiting for the phone to be picked up, for the call to connect._

_A_ _ll eyes but hers are diverted, an attempt at giving the anxious father some room to breathe without feeling the weight of judgement. Then again, perhaps it is simply because the other occupants in the plane know that the fault, the blame, does not rest entirely upon Batman's shoulders._ _They're guilty too, to a lesser degree. Would Tim still have agreed to leave with_ this _universe's Bruce Wayne if he'd thought anyone would have noticed?_

_There's no way of knowing, not really. The thought dissolves back into the abyss. There's no room for blame. What counts now is what they choose to do once they finally find Tim._

_Prudence has no such qualms_ _about staring, however_ _. Her eyes remain fixed on_ _Batman's_ _form, both somehow stoically still and vibrating apprehensively._ _Despite only under her own judgemental gaze, Batman knows just as well as Pru does that all ears are listening. W_ _hich is probably why he unclasps his seatbelt and retreats further into the back of the plane._

_The man doesn't go very far, though. He isn't really able to. Maybe just out of ear-shot for the two youngest boys up the front, but there just isn't enough space for him to disappear entirely._

_Pru can hear the moment the phone-call rings through, a soft beep practically imploring Batman to leave a message. There's a faint stirring of panic in her chest at the thought of Tim not answering his phone, a worry that pricks at her skin and concern at her heart, that he might be hurt or in danger. By the wobble she hears in Batman's voice―_ no, not Batman, _Bruce_ , the sound of a father, panicking, though trying desperately not to sound it― _he clearly feels the same._

 _Pru strains for the soft voice, one that's lost all of its gravel and growl, one that now simply sounds hopeless and lost. “It's. It's me―it's Bruce. I… God, there's so much I want to say. So much I_ need _to say. Too much, I think. I… There's not enough time for me to say it all. Please, kiddo, call me back. Please. I―I am coming for you, Tim. I know you think you're alone right now, and that's… that's_ my _fault, I know. But I love you Tim, and―”_

_A long, loud and high-pitched beep cuts off whatever he plans to say next._

_The plane is quiet, with the exception of the engine, humming and the vibrations thrumming through their bodies._

_Batman doesn't return to his seat. Not immediately, at least. It's several minutes before the man shows his face again, scooting around the chair with his back to her, buckling up and stowing the burner-phone away in his utility belt. The other occupants of the plane are better than her, they at least look away. Pru, on the other hand, glares in his direction. The faint, wet marks on his cheeks give him away._

_Up the front, Bruce Wayne―the version of the man not clad in cape and cowl beside her―calls out. His voice is older, but not as world-weary as the one native to her universe._

“ _We'll be arriving soon,” he declares, while Pru tries not to notice the way Batman hastily wipes the salty tracks from his face. Whatever it is that he had not the chance to say over the phone, he'll get his shot soon enough. And she can't imagine him letting go of it easily._

* * *

The buzz of the black burner-phone resting heavily in his palm leaves Tim's brown-iron and bloodied fingers feeling oddly tingly after every ring. Phantom vibrations continue down past his knuckles as the pads of his fingers press into the sides of it, clutching it tight as the blue screen carves up the darkness, sharply slicing through the night. The phone is lit up, displaying the sole name programmed into it: _Prudence Wood._

The zephyr feels brutally cold against the exposed parts of his face, the alleyway little more than a wind tunnel despite how mild the night is. Breezes drift through, catching on his hair, picking up forsaken scraps of refuse and lost litter. Whipped up by the wind, the tang of iron is potent, made especially so as Garfield runs antiseptic wipes down his arm and over the hasty sutures. Rather than mopping up the blood, it mostly smears it around, leaving copper-coloured streaks in its wake. The sight of it against Garfield's green skin leaves his stomach churning with guilt. Sounds of the city at night catch his ears and the concrete beneath his knees his hard and unforgiving.

“Are you going to take that?” Garfield hisses through the action of running an antiseptic wipe over the lower half of his forearm, the skin around the stitches already red and painful in appearance. Tim glances up at him as he speaks, then back down again, catching sight of the drying red coating the undersides of his nails once more.

“It's Pru,” he says, as though that means something to Garfield, who merely returns the words with nothing more than a blank look. “My―friend,” he explains, tightening his grip around the phone and feeling the edges dig into his palm.

It's not rare for Pru to text. They used to text each other every week, if only just to check that the other was alive. Calling, though… that was different. They didn't really do that.

Tim deliberates on picking up as he stares as the mess that has become Garfield's arm. Another, more violent hiss escapes the teen's mouth as he tackles the upper part of his arm, a new antiseptic wipe in hand.

 _As much as he value's Pru's friendship, now just isn't the time_ _._ They have to get to a safe place and get Garfield's arm cleaned up properly. And all before Damian tattles on them and Bruce has a chance to track them to Metropolis.

“N-no,” he says eventually, mostly to himself rather than to Gar, shoving the phone into his back-pocket with almost aggressive haste. “We need to get out of here. Find a place to crash for the night, recoup for the morning."

Pushing to the balls of his feet and hearing his knees protest as he rocks back onto his heels, Tim hauls himself upright and bends over to schlep his injured friend into standing as well.

“There's nothing more we can do here tonight,” he sighs, carefully eyeing the way Garfield is holding his arm and silently praying it doesn't become infected. “We need to go over the plan for tomorrow.”

Garfield brushes a lone bang out of his eyes and leaves a bloodied streak across his cheek as he nods. They're roughly the same age, Tim knows, but in that moment Garfield looks so small despite the fierce set of his jaw. The difference between this Garfield and the one in Tim's own universe, he thinks, is that _this_ Garfield loved and lost _everything._ Just like Tim did.

“There's an old safe-house,” the other Titan says, jerking his chin in a vaguely eastern direction. “Part of the subway that used to be subject to flooding. The League turned it into a base and then built themselves a better one a few years later. It ended up in our hands, but I don't think anyone has been there since Conner left the team, and—. Well. That was a few years ago.”

“Does Batman know about it?” Tim wonders aloud, unable to hold the question in.

Garfield nods, then: “Yeah. There are few bases he _doesn't_ know about. But we'll be safe until morning, at least. After all, he has to track us to _Metropolis_ first and then search each of the safe-houses individually, right?”

Eventually, Tim shrugs. “Lead the way,” he says finally, gesturing towards the exit of the alley, feeling the cool air on his wet palm.

* * *

The little lead tin with the green, glowing rock in Tim's pocket feels heavy, clutched in his sweaty palm. It is faintly warm, Kryptonite always is, given it's radioactive properties. The rock is generally harmless to humans, unless consumed in some form, but to Kryptonion's like Superman, it is deadly. _Even to half-Kryptonian's, like Conner._ The thought of using Kryptonite against any Conner in any universe curls Tim's stomach like sour milk, but he hadn't been able to deny Damian's point before the boy had left― _he really didn't know what kind of Conner he would be facing._ Whether it was a Conner who would be exactly the same as the one he remembered, or whether this Conner would be entirely different.

Beside him, Garfield is beginning to look increasingly uncomfortable as they make their way down the street in plain-clothes―clothes that had once belonged to one of the speedsters, Tim guesses, given the odd choice in non-flammable material. Probably Wally West, he assumes. The safe-house they'd stayed in had been run-down, but not entirely dilapidated. The clothes that Tim wore had never belonged to him, but to the Dick of this universe―and that is something Tim is trying really hard not to think about, because if he does, that will be an entirely separate kettle of fish to never touch again. Tim's feelings towards all Richard Grayson's are fairly complicated at the moment and if he'd had the spare time, maybe he would sit down and muddle through their complexities. As it is, teen-aged superheroes rarely have spare time.

“You've got the rock?” Garfield asks, looking more nervous by the minute. He manages an anxious chuckle and continues: “You know, just in case he _really_ doesn't want to see us?”

For Garfield's peace of mind, Tim pulls out the small box, no bigger than a mint tin, and the flicks it open to reveal the unnaturally green rock. Flashing it toward Gar, he lingers a moment, before stuffing it back in his pocket.

“I know I said I didn't want to bring it,” Garfield begins, looking only slightly mollified by the Kryptonite as he absently fiddles with his fingers, seemingly unaware. “But I guess I'm kind of glad you insisted. I… it's been a long time, you know?” Garfield jerks his chin up then, just as a gust of wind brushes his green bangs clear out of his face. “A lot might have changed.”

Tim nods, both understanding and knowing. It didn't take much for a person to change. _He_ knew that, perhaps better than most. Maybe Tim could add that to the ever-growing list of reasons as to why he'd slowly shirked away from the family; from Bruce, and Bruce from he. Maybe it was the fact that Tim had _changed._ Not just a little, but a lot. Tim had made himself out to be a rock, a steady thing to grip onto in turbulent waters, but Bruce's disappearance had changed all of that. It had changed _him._ Maybe the almost-man Bruce looked at when he'd come home hadn't in any way resembled the boy he'd left. It's hard to say, really.

Tim shrugs with a nonchalance he doesn't really feel. “I suppose we'll just have to hope it's enough. _We're_ enough.”

Garfield shoots him a distinctly dubious glance, but makes no comment in return. They walk in silence until they reach the big, shiny new building in the heart of Metropolis, a sizeable enough crowd gathered already.

“Lots of people,” Garfield notes aloud, giving a low whistle as he scans the crowd. “More than I thought there would be.”

Tim nods in agreement, but isn't as surprised. After Garfield had gone to sleep the previous evening, Tim had settled in with a coffee in hand and done some reading and research, figuring out what the best course of action was given that their first plan had completely gone up in smoke.

The building was high-profile, on multiple levels. Promoted to be state-of-the-art, as Tim had leafed through some of the projects and staff going into the building, he'd gained a greater picture as to why Luthor had invested so much money into it. Particularly when he'd come across the proposed research into genetics.

Tim could read between the lines, he just wondered how Conner felt about it.

There's minimal security, he notes, eyes scanning over the crowd. A regular amount for any event hosted by anyone but Lex Luthor, but less for the suspicious man himself. It only occurs to him then, just as Garfield is tugging on his arm and pulling him away, that the reason Luthor always had so much security in his own universe was probably due to the fact that there was a certain man of steel. Superman didn't exist here, not anymore. It was strange to remember that.

Gar drags him out of the crowd and pulls him behind a TV van, out of sight.

“There's a backstage area,” he whispers in fast, hushed tones. “I think I can get us in―the door has a gap that I think I can squeeze under if I shift, but I'll need you to cover my six.”

Tim gives him a thumbs up as he nods, an excited, cheeky grin splitting apart his lips. “Alright. I got you covered.”

Beast Boy takes the lead, dragging Tim through the crowd and deftly avoiding the wandering eyes of security personnel that lazily drift over the people gathered in the area.

A sudden change in atmosphere and a small cheer from a rotund woman behind him makes Tim look up at the stage just in time to see a man appear, bald and with a sharp jaw; _Luthor._ The sight of the man presses all the air out of his lungs, like his chest is caught in a vice, but it's the shadowy figure behind him that forces him to stop breathing altogether.

Tim comes to a complete stand-still, his feet scuffing to a stop. With Garfield latched onto his arm, the other boy notices Tim's sudden freeze and pauses to turn as well, taking in his face and gaze for a brief moment before tracking the still stare to the stage. Gar's breath hitching in his throat is an audible thing.

The view isn't great, but Tim can just make out the soft waves of Conner's black hair and the piercing blue of his eyes, a quiet ocean looking particularly bored compared with Lex's beaming smile that Tim doesn't trust for a second is genuine or real. Conner is clothed in a well-tailored suit, and it throws him for a moment, especially given how he is used to seeing Conner band-tee's and farm overalls.

 _This isn't_ your _Conner,_ he compels himself to remember, taking in a deep breath and counting to ten before shaking himself out of the unnatural posture he's frozen in. _This Conner is bound to be different, just like Garfield is, even if it's only in small ways._

Gently, where Garfield's hand is still latched onto his arm, Tim gives him a little shake and with a start the green teen seems to remember himself.

“It's weird seeing him up there like that,” he mutters, jerking his chin in Conner's direction, but speaking only loud enough for Tim to hear over the whooping and cheering from the crowd at Lex Luthor's appearance. “'M not… it's not _him._ ”

The words in Tim's mouth have suddenly dried up. All he can do is swallow down the sandpaper feeling clinging to his tongue.

The two of them move on, pressing further through the crowd, pushing across to the other side and step-by-step closer to their destination.

“Alright,” Garfield says finally, letting go of Tim's arm just as they burst through the other side of the crowd. “Keep watch, okay?”

“Okay,” he replies. “I'll be here. Good luck.”

Garfield manages a quick smile before changing, form shifting and shrinking. Tim gathers up the abandoned clothes that didn't shrink with him just as a small, green mouse slips under the door to the backstage area. It isn't a very long wait before the door is swinging open from the inside.

“Good work,” he praises, handing over Garfield's clothes before stepping back and turning around, re-locking the door while giving Beast Boy some modesty. “Now we just have to figure out which dressing room belongs to Conner. It shouldn't be too difficult to find, there weren't too many guest speakers on the bill.”

Garfield taps him on the shoulder, directing him to turn around again, and Tim is met with a grin made up of all teeth.

“Well, this plan is going a lot smoother than the last,” he laughs softly, to which Tim rolls his eyes and tells him not to jinx it. “I'm serious,” Gar continues, the beaming smile never wavering as he falls into step with Tim, already making his way down the hall. “Plans always did go a lot smoother when the Titan's had the famed _Robin_ around. You always did have every contingency counted for.”

Feet stop in time with the missed beat of his heart, a single skip over a record, something anyone would miss if they didn't know the song. It's a shame, then, that Garfield knows him. Or, Tim supposes bitterly, not really _him,_ but a version of him.

“Gar…” he says, suddenly feeling an extreme spike of anxiety, coupled with his swing in hurt, like a punch not properly dodged. “I'm not… that wasn't _me.”_

The smile on Garfield's face slides right off; oil in a fry-pan. “Oh,” he says, blank-faced, but in a way that makes Tim think he's probably shifting through everything in his brain, trying to reconfigure and reconnect _his_ Tim with the one before him.

Tim feels utterly exposed. A fraud.

“Oh,” Garfield says again, with more light and recognition in his eyes, a budding apology there too. “I… I didn't mean. I wasn't trying to imply―ah. Sorry. I…”

Tim just shakes his head gently and waves him off. “No,” he begins, soft and understanding. “I get it. I just… I don't want you to be let down when it's… when I'm not the Tim you _think_ I am.”

In what seems to be confusion, Garfield's brow creases. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Tim thinks it's embarrassment that makes him look away, but in truth he thinks maybe it's something else. Hurt or fear, though he's not sure.

“Nothing, it's… it's nothing…” he says, quietly, feeling slightly raw. “It… it doesn't matter and now isn't the time or place anyway.” He surges forward, moving on before Garfield decides to continue the conversation Tim is trying oh-so-desperately to avoid.

Finding the dressing rooms is a lot easier than Tim thinks it will be. Each guest speaker has their name sharpie-d on stark, white paper and taped to a door, though he isn't expecting to met with the name _Conner Luthor_ in bold black. The name stares back at him with critical eye when Tim comes across it, head doing a double take and snapping back swiftly, almost fast enough to give himself whiplash.

When Garfield catches up, he says not a word as he too looks at the name, though there's a subtle hitch in the boy's breath that gives him away.

Tim is the first to shake of the shock. “Come on,” he says quietly, pushing open the door with pads of his fingers, the light door going easily. “We should find a place to stay out of sight, just in case any security are doing rounds in the dressing rooms.”

Garfield acknowledges his words with a sharp nod, bangs flopping over into his eyes for a brief moment before brushing them away. In a move that proves to Tim that Garfield is the stronger out of the pair of them, he takes a determined stride into the room―stepping inside with his head high, like a brave man to the gallows.

Tim understands his fear, trailing in after him. Conner rejected Garfield just as much as he rejected the rest of the Titans, but it was _Garfield_ who felt it most keenly. If only because he was the last of the Titans, clinging to a place and a people who had seemingly rejected him.

_Tim can understand that all too well._

Despite his best efforts, Bruce's face swims into the forefront of his mind. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes, the way they crinkle when he smiles. The thinness of his upper lip and how it used to curl with a concealed half-smile whenever he caught Tim about the manor.

 _So much has changed over the last year,_ he thinks as Garfield pulls him behind the half-wall and under the make-up bench. _There's so much he can never have back._

 _Including Bruce,_ his _Bruce._

Tim knows he's not the son anyone wanted; not even his own parents wanted him, but for a short period in his life, Bruce had made a place for him. Even if that place had only been made out of necessity and for _Robin_ , not Tim. Damian held that mantle now. Bruce had no need for _Tim_ or _Red Robin_ , despite how much he wanted to be _needed_.

Still. A part of him. A small, desperate part, would always want Bruce. No matter what it cost him. No matter how much it hurt. Bruce was the only person who had given him the time of day, even if he would never do that again. It _hurt_ to know it was Tim clinging to this one-sided relationship, but then again, when hadn't it been? Bruce had never asked for the scrawny next-door neighbour to come barging into his life, and he'd certainly never asked for Tim to _stay_.

 _Batman needed Robin,_ his mind chorused the familiar chant. A song so well-sung, so often intoned that Tim knew it in his heart like his brain knew oxygen. _Bruce didn't need Tim._

The sudden jerk of Garfield's hand on his arm, shaking him, yanks him right out of his thoughts and back into the present. It's just enough to get Tim to look up from where he'd been studying his cuticles in time to hear the dressing room door swing open, his heart nearly stopping in his chest.

The sound of Conner's footsteps―strangely, more familiar to Tim than his own, despite the fact that _this_ version of Conner is not his―crossing the carpet, is chased immediately by a plummy voice that sends a shiver of fear down his spine.

“―you a thousand times to enunciate when you speak, it's a wonder the yokel out there could understand you at all!” Lex sounds ready to vibrate out of his skin frustration. At the very least, it makes Tim smirk.

On the other side of the half-wall, a heavy and powerful slam makes the mirror above them shake precariously.

“ _I've told you,”_ Conner hisses, sounding strung out and just as irritated with Luthor as Lex is with him. The end of each sentence is punctuated by a fist hitting the wall. _“I hate this! I hate being paraded around like some miracle show-pony of genetics._ I just want to live a _normal_ life. I want to go to school! I want friends! _I want this godforsaken headache to go away!”_

Little bits of debris land on Tim's head, tiny flakes of gyprock. Looking up, Tim can see why; Conner's entire fist has gone through the half-wall obscuring them.

On the other side, he hears a sigh, and imagines that Lex much be pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb to produce the full effect of sounding so disappointed―it is definitely something Tim picture in his mind's eye.

“We've discussed this,” the man says, sounding sycophantically sympathetic, honeyed comfort dripping from his tongue that Tim can't trust for a second is genuine. “It's just a flaw in your human physiology. _I_ get migraines all the time too. You'll just have to learn that humanity isn't perfect, Conner, and neither are you.”

The silence in the air hangs for a moment, and in it, Tim can visualise his best-friend― _no, not_ his _best-friend, not really, but maybe they can be_ _―_ biting his bottom lip. The way he always used to do around Clark when he was unsure, when he didn't quite know what to say around a father who never wanted him in the first place.

Out of the silence, a single shuffle on the carpet catches his ear, a lithe man's shoe. There's the distinct sound of a tie being straightened, then: “You know there's no where else for you to go, don't you, son. No one else will take you. I _want_ you, Conner. I've claimed you as my flesh and blood in the eyes of the law and the people. Imagine what effect rejecting me will have on your reputation. Do you want to be like Superman? Cast out and _rejected?”_

Tim doesn't hear a peep from Conner, but he has to restrain himself from sucking in a too harsh breath, or better yet, leaping out and knocking Luthor's front teeth in for that whole ridiculous statement. Of _course_ people want Conner. How could they _not?_

Conner must shake his head, because the next thing he hears is Lex's voice again, low and smug. “I didn't think so.”

There's an imperious sniff, another shuffle of Oxfords on carpet, and then: “I'll be back to collect you after I speak with the facility director. Don't cause trouble.”

Both Tim and Garfield wait with baited breath until the dressing room door has closed with a quiet _click,_ and then, for a moment more after that.

The unexpected sound of a neck-tie whipping out of a collar is coupled with a tired grunt; “you can come out now, whoever you are. I can hear you both breathing.”

Suddenly, streaking out from beneath the make-up desk, Garfield is off like a shot, leaping around the half-wall to tackle Conner with a hug. Tim follows without Bart-like speed, but he's fast enough to catch the narrow miss to Garfield's head.

To an onlooker, the three of them would make a comical sight.

Garfield has ducked the punch Conner sent his way, an almost manic grin spreading his cheeks apart like a villainous chipmunk. Meanwhile, Conner has his entire arm outstretched, fingers curled into a fist, but eyes wide and terrified, his whole head turned not in Garfield's direction, but Tim's. Tim stands stock-still at the sight of the half-Kryptonian, the resemblance to his own so horribly uncanny that it churns something in his gut. _It's not him,_ Tim's brain supplies, despite the longing ache in his chest that so desperately wants it to be. _It's not him, it's not Kon._ It is, but it isn't― _just like with Garfield._ Looking at them both makes Tim's stomach flip, a sensation not unlike that of missing a step when descending down stairs, only to catch yourself at the last minute.

 _It's Conner. But it's not_ his _Conner._

… _but his Conner isn't ever coming back. And there's a Conner right before his eyes. One that's close enough to touch, if only he could reach out to touch._

For a brief flash, Tim suddenly thinks he understands why Batman took him on as Robin― _after all,_ _he'd only just lost Jason._ Another black-haired, blue-eyed kid showing up at his door? Tim wasn't Bruce's second son, but perhaps if the man didn't look too hard, he could catch glimpses of his lost son when Tim leapt off skyscrapers, chasing moon-shadows. Not that there's any use for Tim anymore; Jason's back now, returned from the dead like some kind of miracle, plus Bruce has a new Robin now. A biological son to carry on the legacy created by his beloved first-born. There's no room for Tim in a family like that, not any space that _he_ can see.

A name falls from Conner's lips, so quiet that it's seemingly without thought. The weight of the moment, pinning them all down with thrice the force of gravity, is only broken when Conner unexpectedly retreats a step backwards.

“ _Garfield,”_ he snarls, arms coming up defensively, though his eyes never leave Tim. The teen's skin has turned a pasty shade of white, like he has seen a ghost― _but then again,_ Tim muses silently, feeling much the same way, _he supposes he has._ “Garfield, _who the hell is this?”_

The green boy's grin spreads wider, a crazed glint in his eye. “What, like it's not obvious?” He snickers, though the sound is still too crazed for Tim to hear it without a pinch of concern.

“ _Don't play games with me Garfield,”_ Conner barks, sparing a single, dirty glance towards the other boy. _“This isn't… it's not―.”_

The world suddenly feels like it's crumbling away. That brick by brick, the protective wall Tim has built around his heart has unexpectedly begun to crumble and decay, washing away with the torrential strength of his emotions, so carefully clamped down on for months.

It's all suddenly too much. The tears plop off his chin, one after another, until they're very quickly a stream, unbroken. The sobbing seems to freak Conner out, but Tim can't stop it, no matter how hard he tries. It startles the doppelganger of his best-friend enough to send him careening forward half a step, before immediately aborting, like it is some kind of ingrained habit to comfort a person in distress―which, _it could be_ , if Tim is perfectly honest with himself. A small part of him wants to be selfish and claim it's because _this_ Conner has missed his Tim as much as Tim has missed _his_ Conner, but he pushes the greedy thoughts from his mind as quickly as they come.

Conner has left a gap between them that feels like a chasm. A wobbly step forward is followed by a second; a gait so hesitant one might mistake Tim for a newborn foal. It gives Conner time to move, or run, or take a step back, in case it's too much and he needs to flee. But he does none of these things, rooted in one spot right up until Tim is barely a foot away.

A fire encompasses Tim before he can fully register it. A body surges forward, an avalanche, but made of molten heat and lava, Conner's warmth like a furnace on the constant ice of Tim's skin. There are arms around his neck, reeling him in, the hug conveying more feelings than Tim can understand―every drop of water overflowing the barrel that already holds too much pain and longing and _hope._

“Tim,” he says, voice breathy and choked in his ear. _“You're alive.”_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conner's return.

_The Titans Tower is an imposing building, Pru thinks. The floor is made from a solid, semi-shiny material―not marble, though not concrete either, something in between the two. It might have once been grand, but its current state all but reeks of disuse and the fine layer of dust scattered over it is interrupted only in the middle. Footprints, more than one set, track a path from the front door to the elevator. Pru's shoes do not clack softly on the floor as she follows along behind the group of vigilantes, some in and some out of costume. They are a silent ensemble._

_Up ahead of her, Pru can see both Dick Graysons' looking around, the pair of them wearing matching expressions of horror as they cast glances of appalled misery around the dilapidated space. Neither of them look terribly thrilled at the run-down state of it._

“ _How could you let this happen?” she first hears Nightwing say to his counterpart, kicking away a small, fist-sized chunk of concrete by his boot. It goes skidding and clattering across the shiny floor, it gathers dust as it rolls. A sharp distinct line is carved into the floor from the debris, cutting through the grime and filth. The question, seemingly more rhetorical than inquiring, is hardly more than a whisper, distress and heartache woven like lace within each word._

_Dick rounds on him, fire in his tone. “You're blaming me?” he asks, incredulous. There's furious zeal in his irises, clear enough that Pru can pick it out._

_The words are all the fuel he needs, petroleum to a flame. Nightwing instantly matches his anger, his tongue hot and sharp, like a fire-poker. “Who else is there?!” he interrogates ruthlessly, a barely controlled explosion, not quite a shout. “You abandoned your team!”_

_It's not unlike watching two infernos dive at each other during the intense blaze of a wildfire, Pru thinks. Both wish to consume the other, prove their victory._

_A lick of hurt flicks up into Dick's face, but just like a worn, weary fire-fighter, he smothers it quickly. “You're such a hypocrite,” he declares, his tone a rising crescendo, each word seeming to fan the indignation in the next. “You're too much like Bruce to even notice your own hypocrisy!”_

_Nightwing snarls. “What's that supposed to mean?”_

_The accusation is loud and thunderous. The storm-front promising to bring heavy rains to the flames, but instead only providing the lightning to strike the dry, brittle tinder. “You have eyes for the mission only!” he condemns critically, stretching out one slender, cinnamon finger to jerk it in Nightwing's face. “Maybe if you could see past your own self-sacrificial ass, you'd have noticed one of your brothers is missing. Some kind of big brother you are!”_

_Nightwing's mouth snaps shut with an audible click of his jaw._

_Pru rolls her eyes, but keeps walking. The two of them have paused in place, both huffing and puffing, with Damian and Robin exchanging wary glances, growing more concerned with each passing second._

_She progresses past them, following after the pair of Bruce Wayne's, disappearing down the corridor silently. Matching shadows._

_I hope these two idiots hurry up and finish their dick measuring contest soon, she thinks with another roll of her eyes and then a snort as the thought solidifies. She gets an odd look from the two Robin's as she moves straight through the unoccupied space between them, or maybe it's a cry for help, but the two Dick Grayson's have their chests puffed up so high, they barely notice her going._

_Pru slinks onward, proceeding after the two Bruce Wayne's down the corridor until the three of them are in a room filled with computers and computer monitors. She hangs back near the doorway, staying as out of it as she can and briefly musing on the almost unnoticed fact that the two Jason Todd's seem to have disappeared somewhere else altogether. Pru braces her foot against the door and then eases the rest of her weight back against the wall, ready to wait patiently and enduringly through their hunt for clues._

_It almost startles her when Bruce speaks. Judging by the words coming out of his mouth, she wonders if he's forgotten she's there at all, or maybe he never even noticed her come in._

“ _You know you're―_ we're― _not winning any Father of the year awards, letting our children argue like that,” Bruce says, deliberately avoiding Batman's gaze by fixating his stare on the screen in front of him. Pru had thought neither of them had noticed the two Dick's down the corridor, both of them niggling out each other's faults like a woodcarver with a sharp knife. It appears she was wrong._

_Pru expects Batman to snap back, angry and cold. But he doesn't._

“ _Yes,” he begins, a sigh like a sorrowful accordion. “I know.”_

_It sounds like there's a second layer to this conversation that Pru is quite sure she is missing. Then again, maybe doppelgängers have some kind of psychic link she's unaware of. Or maybe it's something else entirely._

_Almost as an afterthought, Batman nearly whispers: “There's a lot I need to make up for.”_

_Fingers, thick and calloused, tap away on the individual keyboards. The two of them are so similar, she reflects, and yet so different._

“ _So I heard,” Bruce replies softly, scrutinising the monitor in front of him. As an explanation, he supplies: “I could hear you on the plane as we rode over.”_

_Batman gives a jerky nod, but he looks strangely shaken. He doesn't speak, but she wonders if this is simply because he cannot trust himself to do so. Fortunately for him, Bruce continues the conversation._

“ _But it's more than just Tim, isn't it?” he adds, curious and concerned all at once. “Something happened in your universe and it's driven a wedge between yourself and your kids.”_

_Pru tries not to adjust her weight or make any noise at all, really. It's a shame she can't melt into the wall for this conversation, but she's here now, and by what she can see of the expression on Batman's face, illuminated solely by the white-blue lights of the monitors, this is not something he cares very much to speak about. Somehow, though, the fog of silence hanging in the air prompts him to part it._

“ _I died,” he croaks. The two simple words are thick and raw, jagged around the edges. He sounds a little like a frog with a cold._

_Bruce carries on as though nothing out of the ordinary was said at all. “I see,” he replies after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. After all, what does one say to that?_

_Based on all that she has experienced with Batman and his squadron of melodramatic children, Pru can't imagine anyone took that very well. Least of all Tim._

_But, well… She knew that already, didn't she? That period in his life, that was when they'd met. And it wasn't like she didn't remember what the boy looked like then. Skinny as a rake, eyes haunted but still razor sharp, always watching for the next attack, always running. In fact, Pru couldn't truly imagine he had changed much. In closing her eyes, she finds it distressingly hard to picture a Timothy Drake that is healthy, happy and hale._

_Bruce opens his mouth again, looking as though he intends to begin a new line of questioning, but all at once, Red Hood and his counterpart, Jason, suddenly reappear. A lesser ex-assassin might have jumped._

_The version with the red helmet under his arm gives her a smirk and looks as though he is considering her trustworthiness―though she momentarily wonders if this is just simply his default expression, but the other steps forward without reservation, bursting in and interrupting the previous conversation without notice._

“ _We've found it,” he begins breathlessly, and there's an undercurrent of excitement to his voice. “We've found where Tim went.”_

_The two Bruce's snap to attention, swivelling around in their chairs to face their respective sons. The question goes unspoken, but it's heavy like thick smog in the air of the cramped room._

“ _The Zeta Tubes,” Red Hood says, running his fingers through his hair and shaking it out. There's a degree of violence in the action. “Two nights ago, the very same day Damian left here. Two bio signatures―Robin and Beast Boy. They were headed for Metropolis.”_

_From the unmasked parts of his face, Pru can see how distraught this revelation makes Batman. “Tim was expecting Damian to do exactly what he did.” Each word is deliberate. Long, drawn and slow as he considers the implication._

_Sometimes Pru truly does wonder what Tim was like before she met him, because either Batman underestimates his intelligence or else the boy was filled with a lot more trust and a lot less cynicism once. Given the way the lines on his face seem to curve downward with hurt, she surmises it is the latter._

_Bruce takes a deep breath. “There is no way the tubes have enough power to carry us all to Metropolis and back,” he says, matter-of-fact, but nonetheless looking disheartened at this turn of events. “They've already been running on emergency power for years. I know, I disconnected the mains power myself when the Justice League was…” he hesitates and looks conflicted. “When I left the Justice League,” he puts anew, forcibly dismissing the sadness from his voice. “And it'll take us half a day to get us all there by plane.”_

_Batman makes a rather gruff noise, not quite a grunt as he stands. “Then we won't go by plane,” he declares, voice obdurate like steel. “I'll take the Zeta Tube. Alone.” The man stares them down, daring someone to challenge him, but Pru simply decides the mulishness in his tone is juvenile._

_This time, as Pru rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time, she pipes up: “don't be stupid.” She scoffs as she kicks away from the doorframe, her weight surging forward. “You're unfamiliar with this world, you know less about it than you do your own sons.”_

_The room goes sharply quiet. Batman briefly looks as though she's physically slapped him across the face and stands, stunned. Pru gets a small amount of silent satisfaction from it._

_Next, she angles herself towards his doppelgänger, pinning him with a firm stare, like a lioness her prey. “You should go,” she states, though it's more an order._

_Batman opens his mouth, likely in the mind of arguing, but before he can do so, his counterpart cuts in first. Swinging out a hand to forestall the quarrel, he speaks quickly._

“ _She's right,” he agrees with a short nod, quieter than anyone is expecting, the sound just barely above a whisper though growing as he turns to face his match. “Metropolis has changed. They don't welcome heroes there anymore, meta or otherwise. You would be driven out or arrested before you even knew where to look for Tim. Besides, I'm more familiar with this world regardless.”_

“ _I'm not letting B go by himself,” says someone else, melting out of the shadows. It's Dick, evidently having finished squabbling. Beside him, Damian inches forward, looking eager and in agreement. Jason falls in line with them, now daring Bruce to argue._

_He doesn't, he simply sighs. Unlike the version standing beside him, this Bruce seems easier to persuade. “There's not going to be enough power for us all to get back,” he bemoans, looking torn. “Maybe enough for us to get there, but not for all four of us to get back.”_

_Batman turns to him. “Let_ us _worry about that,” he says mysteriously, before adding: “The rest of us will head up to The Watchtower. If the Zeta tubes are each running on their own individual power, we just have to plug them back into the mainframe, right? So, we'll get the main power up and running. You can meet us there―” the lenses of the mask seem to narrow as his voice drops, “―with Tim in tow.”_

_There's an exchanging of silent looks between the two men, a wordless conversation Pru is not privy to. And then, they both nod simultaneously and it's decided. Batman looks stiff and expressionless under the cowl, she studies him for a moment then slides her gaze over to his mirror, who appears softer around the edges without the cape hanging of his shoulders, but no more forthcoming._

_Meanwhile, Nightwing puts his hands on his hips and purses his lips. “Well, it's as good a plan as any.” The other Richard Grayson nods in agreement._

_Huh. It appears the two of them can get along after all._

* * *

From the very instant they pull apart, Tim finds himself missing Conner's bone-crushing hug. Briefly, he mourns the achingly familiar cologne of hair gel and jacket leather, feeling momentarily winded by the scent. It draws desperate longing out of him like yards of coiled yarn from a sweater, each stitch coming undone, one by one. Though he should feel lighter after extricating himself from Superboy's vice grip, he does not.

Neither is Conner disaffected, it appears. As they part and he draws further back, Tim can see the myriad of emotions hanging in crystalline blue irises. In his face, Tim registers a complicated and twisted mix of hurt, joy, confusion, anger and a great many other number of difficult and unnamable emotions. It's likely Tim's face reflects many of the same feelings back, but there's the additional guilt and fear clawing at his chest, the truth a painful scratch in his throat. It longs to be set free.

_Not yet,_ he thinks. _Let me have this for just a moment longer._ It's selfish, he knows it, but for these few seconds, he can pretend the Conner before him is his own.

However, like all things which come to an end, the spell cast over him at the sight of a mirror image of his best-friend brought to life, breaks. _Just as Tim knew it would._

The words smart and sting like an unexpected slap. “You're dead,” Conner blurts out, bluntly.

A minute passes, the words having escaped his lips without thought. It's merely a statement of emotionless fact, at least until his mind catches up with his mouth. Then, after a few seconds of hovering hesitation, Conner's face darkens and clouds over with rage.

“ _You're dead,”_ he repeats, this time with force behind each syllable, more conviction. He looks furious. There is the tell-tale hitch of upset there, in his voice, too, but the heat in Conner's tone triggers something violent in Tim's own heart.

_How often had he too wanted to rage at his own Superboy? How angry he was that Conner in his world had gone and gotten himself killed, leaving him and the rest team behind, in mourning._

Tim would never get the chance to shout and scream and yell at Conner the way _this_ version would at him, and he _hated_ it.

“ _And you're with Luthor!”_

It's all Tim's frizzled brain can think of to snap back, all other thoughts having fled to be replaced solely by primal anger and debilitating hurt.

Conner jerks back, stunned, recoiling from Tim, and the action stings more than he thought it would, but his mouth doesn't want to stop there. The acid poisoning him seeps out like groundwater from rock.

“ _You abandoned the team to go live with Lex?”_ It's not a question, not really, and all the emphasis falls on the man's name, raw with injury. The accusation stands unsaid, but not unheard: _How could you abandon us in favour of a man who is evil?_

Conner shirks away, deeply wounded as he unconsciously takes a step back. Then, his face twists, souring with regret into an expression that looks like he bit into a lemon. Finally, it melts into the anger that Tim has been fully expecting, but then with no notice, Conner's face suddenly falls. The look of righteous anger and fury and rage crumples into something grieving and almost broken.

Immediately, every word is a regret. Tim stutters, more a noise than a word, a hand coming up and reaching out. It hesitated a foot from his shoulder. _Why was it that Tim had to break everything he touched?_

“You don't know what it was like,” Conner whispers, then, curling into himself and shying away from Tim's lingering hand like a hot iron brand, ready to burn flesh. “After you… after you were gone.”

Tim can imagine, though. The turmoil the Titan's must have gone through might have been much the same as when Conner had died in his own universe. The guilt he suddenly feels is almost palpable, as though he is breathing it into his lungs with every inhalation he draws.

“Superman was awful,” the other boy discloses softly, his arms coming up to fold across his chest. Strangely, it makes him appear smaller. A wave of pain crashes down over Conner's face, followed by another before he's able to batten down the hatches, the tsunami of sorrows suddenly blocked from view. “And…” he goes on, deliberating and worrying his lower lip. “And Luthor pretty much stuck out his hand and asked me to come and live with him. How could I refuse?” He looks up at Tim, something pleading in his eyes.

Partly, Tim feels, Conner is begging forgiveness from a dead boy. A Tim that isn't him. Another lash of pity strikes him, coupled with a throb of grief.

“Nobody wanted me,” Conner continues, barely above a whisper, as though the truth is shameful to admit. To that, Tim can relate. “Least of all Superman,” he finishes.

Tim is a horrible person.

_How can he, a hypocrite, stand here and accuse Conner of abandoning them?_

Tim readily remembers the day he barged into Bruce Wayne's life, getting himself swept up into a world that, deep down, Tim knows he's never truly belonged in.

The hypocrisy, he supposes, lies in the hurt he doesn't deserve to feel.

When Damian had supplanted him he had felt nothing but _fury_ and _grief._ The newer, better model of Robin was quick to learn and quicker to erase Tim's grip on the legacy he had clung to for dear life. Then, no thanks to Tim's own machinations borne out of grief, Bruce returned and he had rejoiced up until the point Bruce had taken Damian on as his Robin, seemingly having forgotten about Tim's existence at all.

When another version of Bruce Wayne had barged into Tim's life, he'd all too easily agreed to be swept up in a world that, deep down, he knows he doesn't belong in.

_Tim, a hypocrite, cannot stand here and accuse Conner of abandoning them._

“I think I do understand,” he murmurs lowly, thick with guilt and sympathy as he falters over the few words spoken.

Though he isn't entirely sure who moves first, Tim is quite convinced that Conner has seen something in his face that grieves him. Slowly, the space between them begins to close.

“I'm sorry,” he apologises, the words weaker than he would have liked them to be, the intonation cracking right down the middle until he sounds breathless and broken. “I… I'm _sorry.”_

The words are meant more for his own Conner than for this one, but they're nonetheless true. The Conner before him shakes his head in return, albeit with a lingering sadness that reminds Tim of someone stuck in their memories. Tim suddenly feels more guilty than ever.

“It doesn't matter,” Conner finally says, words weighted with remorse.

To Tim, though, it does. Most especially when the next words drive the regret down deeper, scratching at the bottommost layers of his heart.

“You're back now,” he goes on, almost unbelieving. And Tim isn't looking, having directed his gaze to his feet out of guilt, but he can hear the smile in the other boy's voice as he says: “You're _here. You're alive.”_

It's near painful, the way his gut twists apprehensively. “I'll try my best to answer any questions you have,” he says quietly, reluctant. “Though―though you might not like my answers.”

_Tim doesn't want to imagine what Conner's face will look like when he finds out the truth._ The pair of them are fire and ice. There is no doubt of the explosion that awaits Tim when Conner finds out who he truly is… or, who he truly _isn't._

However, fate catches them both unawares.

“ _Shit,”_ Conner exclaims then, out of nowhere. Head tilted slightly sideways, Tim muses on the thought that he looks a little like a dog, listening to a sound. “My― _Lex_ is coming. If he catches me with you, there's no telling how he'll react.” Pleadingly, Conner turns his still slightly unfocused, but sharpening gaze directly back to Tim. “Or what he'll do,” he adds, turning to Garfield. “Superheroes are _banned_ in Metropolis now―and he'll have you both locked up on one charge or another, I am sure.”

Garfield looks a little panicked as Tim turns to him, a slightly paler shade of green than when he last looked. _“We've got to get out of here,”_ the boy hisses, more frightened than aggressive, making a grab for Tim's arm.

Conner nods at the comment, his eyes darting to the door, though there's a touch of sorrowfulness in his gaze as it lingers there a moment.

Just by being here, Tim realises then, he is forcing Conner to choose between them. Between Lex and himself. Between a father and a friend. When Conner finally looks back, the haunted look in his gaze tells Tim that he knows it well too.

“The window,” Conner announces. And suddenly, they're a team again.

_Conner has made his choice, but Tim knows it is entirely his own fault._

Garfield moves before Tim's sluggish brain can even register the words, transforming quickly into a mule and rearing up on his front legs to kick the window in with his behind. The transformation is over and done with before Superboy can even grab one arm and shove him in the direction of the now broken glass, shards littering the floor and crunching under his boots.

It's too late, though. Tim's molasses movements freeze at the sound of a door opening and Garfield emits the tiniest, mouse-like squeak, already halfway out the smashed in window.

There's a pause wherein Conner slides in front of Tim almost defensively, and his own eyes rise up to meet those of Lex Luthor's. For a moment, the two of them can do nothing but blink at one another.

Lex moves first. Surging forward with a boom.

“ _WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SON?”_ he roars, a bellow just as fierce as Jack Drake's, Tim's mind supplies readily.

Conner stretches out his arms, a barrier between them. Tim feels the guilt rise up once more, a serpent rearing its ugly head ready to bite viciously and without remorse. _Coming here was a mistake,_ he thinks, wishing he'd never put Conner in the position of having to choose between them.

Conner deserves a good father. Sure, maybe Lex isn't a good man, but it seems like Conner is almost _happy_ for once; Lex is the family he's always wanted. _Here Tim is, barging in, smashing it all to pieces like a child who isn't getting their way._

Lex comes to an abrupt stop, a necessary step to avoid crashing right into Conner.

His eyes narrow into two icy slits.

“Move, son,” he says, tone barely warmer than glacial.

Conner doesn't back down. A stiff chin is jerked up. “No,” he returns, stubbornly. From the angle, Tim thinks he cuts more Superman's figure than Luthor's in that swift second.

“Move,” repeats Lex, sharp and detached. “Or you will be moved.” _It's an empty threat and they all know it._

Over his shoulder, Conner twists and cranes his neck. “Run,” he orders them. “Mercy will show none if she catches you.”

Tim nods and doesn't pause to ask who _Mercy_ is. Lex makes an attempt at manoeuvring around Conner as Tim slips out the window after Garfield, but he is entirely unsuccessful.

The sky has opened up, he notes, a backdrop amidst the frantic panic of his racing heart, little drips of rain falling on their heads.

“Which way?” Garfield asks sounding just as alarmed as he hauls Tim the rest of the way out of the window, each breath short and panicked.

Tim doesn't know, but he doesn't stop to announce that fact. “That way,” he says, and points one jerky finger in the direction least crowded with skyscrapers. Tim would bet money there was a park in that direction, but Garfield doesn't even question it.

Soon enough, the two of them are wending their way back through the crowds of people gathered for the unveiling of the new research facility. There are fewer, now, but still enough to pose a problem for anyone following them.

What neither of them are expecting is Luthor's voice. It rides over the loud speaker, a bone chilling tone that that sends terrified shudders of down Tim's spine. Judging by the looks of unnerved surprise on the faces in the crowd, the frosty, barely concealed wrath is disconcerting for all.

“ _Conner Luthor,”_ the disembodied voice announces, with an Arctic quality. _“Please report to the guest speaker sign in, immediately.”_

The name is so jarring that it startles Tim, at first, before he pushes that revelation away for later, when he has time to unbox all the implications surrounding it. Undoubtedly worse, he quickly decides, only moments after shoving that thought aside, is how much of a threat he can hear riding the man's frigid tone. There is no doubt in his mind that a fate worse than death awaits them if they end up caught by Superman's greatest nemesis.

Out of nowhere, a body sidles up alongside them.

“Conner!” Garfield exclaims, blinking away the disbelief before Tim can.

The boy flashes a mischievous grin at them. “Where to?” he asks, still running, previously gelled back hair beginning to sink slightly from the wet droplets coming down.

“The park,” supplies Tim, pointing in its vague direction, the largest space between the skyscrapers.

Beside him, Garfield makes an affirmative noise and Conner just nods.

They run and they run and they don't slow down or stop running until they reach the small, secluded park, a little ways away, the foliage and greenery providing an amount of protection from the wet weather and the storm, slowly building.

* * *

“So?” Conner asks somewhat anxiously when they finally reach the base of a tall oak, the trunk of it thick and wide enough to provide protection from immediate sight. “Where to now?”

The half-kryptonian throws his hands on his hips, but it doesn't stop him from looking any less apprehensive as he shoots uneasy glances around the well maintained greenery while Garfield and Tim wheeze, panting and gasping for air.

“We can't stay in Metropolis,” Conner barrels on, before either of them have caught their breath to interject. “Dad― _I mean Lex,”_ he corrects, “will have people out looking for us within the hour.” _Tim doesn't like to think what will happen if he catches them._

Garfield is the first to recover. “There's always the tower?” he supplies, having regained some of the colour in his cheeks no thanks to their sprint.

Tim shakes his head wildly in response, swallowing thickly. _“No,”_ he disagrees vehemently, feeling a spike of panic at the notion. “Batman will be at the Titan's tower by now, probably with an entourage, no less.”

This time, it's Garfield's turn to shake his head, green bangs flopping across his eyes until he lifts a hand to roughly wipe them away. “No,” he says. “I didn't mean the _Titan's_ Tower. I was referring to _The Watchtower.”_

Slowly, as the words register one by one in his mind, a grin begins to slip silently between Tim's cheeks, parting his lips and baring his teeth in devious joy. “Perfect,” he exclaims, clapping Garfield on the shoulder. “They'll never think to follow us there!”

Just as as the green teen's grin rises up to match, Conner interrupts. “Are we being chased by Batman too?” he asks, peering at them with confusion.

With a small amount of remorse retracing the guilt ladden path in his chest, Tim hangs his head, grin morphing into an unhappy smile. “Something like that,” he admits, scratching the dirt out from under one nail. “It's kind of a long story.”

Conner doesn't ask right then and there, he simply accepts the explanation without quarrel. “Okay,” he says, hushed. “You can tell me when you're ready.”

It's such a little thing to say, but nonetheless, Tim has to bring up a hand, scrubbing the back of it across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, a minute later, after he has composed himself. “I promise.”

The three of them trek the rest of the way to the Zeta Tube without running into any troubles after that. Conner is twitchy and all too ready to bolt, but he doesn't, despite looking as though he very much wants to. They get thoroughly drenched on their way back to the closed off cave that houses the Zeta Tube, the rocky overhang and twisted formation a sight for sore eyes, but the rain is warm and Tim doesn't start to feel cold until they step into the darkness of the cave and begin their slow decent.

The gate sits silent and undisturbed since their last encounter with it, the same dent in its side.

Conner whistles low and kicks a whole boulder to the left with as much ease as a child with a soccer ball. “This place is a wreck,” he sighs, sounding sad and remorseful. Neither Tim nor Garfield say anything in response, they simply let Conner sigh and have his moment to mourn the past. Quite frankly, Tim isn't sure Conner really _allowed_ himself to grieve what he left behind, but then again, he isn't one to judge.

Without delay, he approaches the circular gate and draws out the keypad, wiping away the years of dust as he does. Intently, his fingers quickly punch in the commands to The Watchtower and his chest heaves a silent sigh of relief when his code is accepted. Once again he is thankful that Bruce never thought to have Tim's code scrubbed from the system after his counterpart's death.

Below the ancient screen, however, the battery symbol begins to flash red. “We're going to have to find an alternative source of power to make it back to Metropolis,” he announces grimly without turning back, voice bouncing off the rock. “This gate won't make more than a couple more trips, max.”

Conner sidles up beside him, wordlessly assessing the screen for himself. Tim spares him a sideways glance, concern the primary emotion expressing. The other teen catches his eye for the briefest of seconds and nods, solemnly.

“I think I can fix that,” he asserts faintly, dropping his eyes back to the still-flashing symbol of a battery. “Once we get up to the tower.” Awkwardly, Tim nods back. But then, Conner adds in a volume no more than a breathy whisper: “Although, I'm not entirely sure I want to.”

That startles Tim, but there's no time to question it.

“Great,” says Garfield with a boyish grin and definitely more jubilation than he's feeling as he jumps between the two of them, hands coming down on their left and right shoulders, respectively. “So we can go?”

Tim turns, feeling faintly amused, eyebrows rising of their own accord as he nods.

“Be my guest,” he says, gesturing to the gate with one hand.

Garfield is all to eager to leap up onto the platform. “The sooner we're away from Lex Luthor,” he says with a shudder in his tone, eyes darting between the two of them. “The better.”

With those departing words, Garfield is gone. The Zeta tube makes a soft whirring noise as it powers down.

Conner steps up next with a shrug, albeit more slowly than Garfield had done, eyes watching Tim up until the very last second. Tim punches in his code for a second time and then Conner is gone, forced to turn and walk through the gate. Another rush of familiar guilt wracks Tim's frame as he goes, once more dwelling miserably upon a plan to tell Conner the truth.

Eyes dropping to the screen, Tim draws in a heavy breath. _There w_ _ill_ _be no easy way to say it,_ he knows. _It would be like handing a child a present on Christmas, only to reveal coal inside._

Tim is given exactly no more time to ponder the situation after that. Without warning, the screen before him begins to flash, lighting up.

“ _Shit!”_ he curses out loud, punching in his code once more and making a mad dash for the gate, catching only the very first serial code as the machine reads it out loud.

“ _Ay dash oh two,”_ he hears the robotic voice announce, followed by: _“Batman.”_

Then, with that, Tim is gone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions.

_The five of them, Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, Robin and Pru, see their counterparts―minus Pru's, of course―off at the Zeta Tubes without much ado._

_It occurs to her that now there is only one set of Wayne's around, she no longer has to continue referring to the first set by their vigilante code-names in order to keep them straight in her head. The trend is somewhat hard to break though._

“ _Do you really think they'll find Tim,” Robin asks, sounding subdued and a little nervous._

_During her time with the League of Assassins, Pru had run into the boy several times, as one tended to do when living in a compound of such a size. The differences in him when she'd shown up in Gotham, though, were noticeable. However, not so much that she couldn't have recognised his bravado upon encountering him again. The impression she got was that Damian Wayne was not exactly fond of his brother, Timothy Drake-Wayne. To put it mildly._

“Quite frankly, I couldn't care less about Drake's whereabouts,” _he had said, back in Tim's condo, high above the unsleeping world that was Gotham._

_Looking at him now, though, it is clear by the wringing of his hands that he does care―and she is suddenly struck by how much of a child this boy truly is. It startles her, but only for a moment. How cruelly life has treated him… Momentarily she wonders what would have become of him had he not received the Robin mantle. Would he be anything like his counterpart here? Or were their worlds too different._

_“I don't know,” answers Nightwing carefully, getting down on one knee,_ _forehead furrowed with a compassionate and understanding wrinkle. “I hope so.”_

_Pru half expects an indignant retort, a sharp riposte to whip off the boy's tongue, but the room remains_ _quiet, save for the sound of Batman punching in the coordinates for The Watchtower._

_“It's my fault,” Robin says_ _then, hushed, but thick with a wetness that threatens in the back of his throat, like a lump unable to be swallowed. “It's my fault Tim left.”_

_Damian's voice does not break at the mention of his brother, but there's a crack that threatens midway through, right before he is able to clear his throat and swallow it down._

_While Prudence knows that with his training, Robin has the skill to don the mask and build up a fake façade of faux concern, right now she cannot bring herself to believe this act is a lie. There are too many signs, too much of it ringing true to her perceptive eyes; the small, consternated frown, the rough edge to his voice, the lilt of upset in his tone―it is all hard enough to perform so perfectly in front of strangers, but this is Damian's_ family _._ _Were it not real, they would know._

_So, no. This is real. She feels sure of it. Most importantly, the remorse in the young boy's tone seems to startle all in the room, not least of all Batman, who stops typing altogether._

_“It's not,” says Dick_ _sympathetically, his face twisting with consolation. “It's not, Dami.”_

_Behind Nightwing, Bruce remains unmoved. As frozen as a statue._

_“It_ is, _” insists Damian, each word barreling into the last, tripping over, one after the next in their rush to escape. “If I had been a better brother, if I hadn't―” It's there that he cuts himself off, clamping a hand over his mouth. The rush of water filling his eyes isn't satisfied by simply being blinked back. The tears spill over the edge, running down his cheeks in fast, heavy rivulets._

_Dick is gentle with him. “Hadn't what, Dames?” he asks, inching forward on his knees until he is within arms length. He begins rubbing circles on the younger's back. To Pru, it looks like a gesture well-performed._

_A weak sob tears out of Damian like a knife haphazardly slashing canvas. He shuts his eyes against the noise, as if believing it might push the feeling away too. “If I hadn't… hadn't hurt him,” he cries. “If I hadn't cut his line.”_

_At this admission, Damian's eyes jerk open again. They dart up, genuine fear in them, worrying retribution, Prudence assumes. She understands this boy better than most. They share a past that binds them in a knot never to be undone, the kind of past that leaves a scar, even if the wound heals. Her own unblinking stare tracks the young Robin's gaze up to the eyes of Batman, cowl cast off._

_To her, the man's expression seems unreadable, but she doesn't miss the way Damian flinches at the sight of it. Whatever it is he reads there, it must hurt a great deal._

_“I'm sorry,” he apologises, a heavier sob ripping out of him,_ _accompanied by a fresh wash of tears. “I am so sorry.” It sounds more like pleading, like begging. In the League, pleading and begging would get you nowhere, back there the child would not have even tried._

_Like Dick before him, Bruce gets down on one knee. For a boy his age, Damian is quite short, but then again his height is not aided by the way he has crumpled in on himself, almost folded in half like badly folded paper origami. His eyes have fallen to the floor and his hands hang loose by his sides, the boy seemingly having resigned himself to whatever fate he believes must be coming. Not for the first time, she is struck with a pang of sympathy as resounding as a gong. In the League she had never thought of this boy as a child. Now, it's all she can see._

_A child, afraid._

_Although Damian isn't looking and therefore cannot see, Pru reads only kindness and easy acceptance in the face of the boy's father as he draws up close. Together as they are, just a few inches apart, she can really see the resemblance. Prudence wonders if grief would look much the same on the elder Wayne's face, but then she quickly decides she'd rather not find out._

_The man rests a gentle hand on his son's shoulder, enough to surprise the boy into looking up and meeting his eyes again. “The Watchtower can wait a moment,” Bruce says softly, the other hand coming down on the opposite shoulder, bracing Damian. “Tell me what happened.”_

* * *

The sensation of going through a Zeta Tube is not entirely unlike having popping candy in one's mouth, except for the fact that the sensation isn't restricted solely to the mouth and tongue. Breathing is the easiest thing in the world, then, suddenly, it isn't. The hairs on one's arms stand proud as the odd feeling rips through.

The first time Tim went through a tube, accompanied by Batman of course, he'd puked up his entire lunch the very instant they'd reached the other side. Immediately, he'd been reassured that it happened to all the first go, but it hadn't been enough to stop his cheeks flushing with embarrassment and his ears pinking.

These are the memories that accompany him during the journey as he thanks his lucky stars for the near miss. _This world's Bruce followed him to Metropolis._ Around that thought, his heart quietly clenches.

_It's Bruce,_ his mind supplies. _It's not,_ his heart responds. _I miss them,_ he realises.

Despite the fact that it is unlikely they've even noticed he's gone, Tim misses _his_ family. It's a sobering realisation, to which his heart only squeezes a little tighter in his chest. It hurts and it _aches_ fiercely. It twists up his stomach and digs down like a knife, slowly drilling ever deeper.

The painful, but peaceful serenity of the transportation process is interrupted by the re-materialisation process.

Without warning, all hell breaks loose.

Tim is greeted by a horrifying scene as he steps out of the tube, the machine powering down behind him.

Conner has his hands outstretched, frozen in place with a pleading expression glued to his face and the very second Tim re-materialises, the teen's eyes flicker over to him, begging for help. A voice, booming and harsh intercepts his ears, resonant and sonorous in the reverberant space of The Watchtower's main hall.

“I'll ask you one last time,” says the voice, masculine and deep. “How did you get these access codes? _Who the hell are you?”_

Tim's eyes roam the room until he finds the source of the voice.

Garfield looks close to hyperventilating, his neck wrapped in a headlock between the forearm and chest of one Cyborg―not _his_ Victor, Tim has to remind himself for the umpteenth time.

In the opposite hand, the half-human, half-machine has a laser pressed firmly against the green teen's head.

The quick succession of events happens at such a rapid speed, Tim is barely given a second to draw breath and shout: “Don't shoot,” while raising his arms high, the laser refocusing on the newest target in the room.

Cyborg's eyes dart to him and he goes pale, as though he's seen a ghost. _It's not like he can fault Victor for that._

The man falters slightly at the sight of Tim. The pause in the room hangs thick and heavy like a dense fog, the steel in his eye widens into surprise, then confusion. For a brief moment, Tim swears he can hear a quaver, a note of insecurity where the previous anger once stood. Cyborg sounds unsure for the shortest of seconds before he manages to recover, a deeper scowl replacing the last, although not without the hint of lingering shock.

“What is going on here,” he snaps, breathless and confused. “Who the _hell_ is that?” If it had been anyone else, the agitation in his voice would have sounded almost hysterical.

For a moment, none of them move. Not a word is spoken. Swift and darting glances are exchanged between the four of them. None of them are under any delusion. Victor knows full well the person before him, but the rhetorical question is likely born out of a desire to refuse reality. After all, dead children didn't become undead.

_Well, maybe there were one or two exceptions to that…_ But the Tim of this universe certainly wasn't one of them.

Conner, unfreezing his feet, begins to inch forward slowly, his palms still raised and his eyes flicking wildly between Garfield and the laser-gun, now pointed directly at Tim.

“Let go of Garfield first,” he pleads, beseeching more than asking. It strikes Tim that Conner's negotiation skills are probably rusty, and that it would probably be better for Tim to take over― _if his feet weren't frozen to the floor and a gun wasn't pointed at his face._ No matter how hard to tries to force his mouth open, however, his jaw feels wired shut.

In Victor's grip, Garfield nods emphatically. “V, _please_ , let me go,” he whimpers, prying at the other man's forearm with small green fingers that do nothing to the metal embracing him. “Tim will explain everything.” Why Beast Boy doesn't just transform momentarily stumps him, up until the point Tim figures the kid is probably panicking too hard to even think about shape-shifting.

What little anger remains melts into more confusion. Victor's confliction weakens his grip. It's not enough for Garfield to wiggle free, but the laser lowers and slowly, the mechanical man's arm swings forward, allowing Beast Boy release.

Garfield scrambles across the room, stumbling behind Conner, who in turn puffs up his chest bravely. Tim's eyes don't leave Victor or the laser, both in his hand and simply _his hand_ all at once. The weight lifts off his chest. If nothing else, at least Garfield and Conner are safe.

Before him, Cyborg looks dubious, though there is an unmistakable edge of worry to his expression too.

“Talk.”

It's a demand, monosyllabic and sharp. It punctuates the room like a gun going off. Everyone flinches as though one has.

The deep breath Tim allows himself sinks into his chest as he braces himself, eyes quickly darting to Conner and then back again.

_It's time to break the spell._

_Three clicks of his heels and he'll be thrown out of Oz._

_One tick-tock past midnight and the carriage will be nothing more than a garden pumpkin again, the horses simply pantry mice._

It's time. There's no getting around it any longer.

_It's time to break the spell._

“I'm Tim,” he explains slowly, bringing a flat, albeit sweaty palm to his chest. “But―” another deep breath. “But I'm not _your_ Tim.”

Victor's single-human eyebrow curves down. For a moment he frowns as he puzzles his way through the spoken sentence, now hanging in the silent, still air. The farce is over, the charade ripped away to reveal the hollow shadow behind it.

_Pinocchio, just a puppet made of wood. Carved lovingly into the shape of a real boy, but never able to truly be one._

“I'm from another universe,” he carries on, ignoring the harsh bite of the silence in space. “A universe where I… where I didn't die.”

Surprise registers on Victor's face, but the little disbelief that wars with it is won over in favour of belief, perhaps thanks the imploring veracity in Tim's tone.

At no point does Tim dare look over at Conner, too worried that he will falter.

“In my universe, it was not me that died, but Superboy,” he says, lungs heavy with lead and aching for oxygen. “In my universe I lost _everything_.”

Victor's laser-gun hesitates just a moment, then powers down as he lowers it completely. It folds back into his arm and hand like it was never there at all.

Tim lets out a silent huff of relief and then exchanges the look with Garfield, who returns it with a wobbly, grateful smile of his own. It appears he was convincing enough.

Then, finally, he drags his eyes over to where Conner stands.

The Kryptonian stands completely and utterly still, eyes swollen wider than the moon and lips just as pale as lunar rock. The expression on the rest of Conner's face, contorted in some places, almost blank in others, is what hurts Tim more than anything else.

Huge, blank eyes stare, unseeing, at the dusty floor. _Conner looks so betrayed._

It is done, he thinks in the very far reaches of his mind. It's over, but all Tim wants to do is weep.

The room is still quiet. It rings so loudly in Tim's ears.

Then, a bomb goes off.

Conner explodes.

The rest of the group flinches, though he doesn't know why. All along he expected this.

Tim stands like a seawall, unmoving against the raging of the storm, face calm and arms limp by his sides.

_“HOW COULD YOU?”_ Conner screams, so loud and deafening that Garfield covers his ears as he skirts away. _“YOU LIED TO ME! YOU LET ME BELIEVE YOU WERE MY TIM!”_

Undoubtedly, Conner has more to say, but in that moment, it suddenly seems to be all too much for him. Immediately, his voice stoppers up behind quivering lips, a half-hitched, dry sob the only sound to escape. Then, Tim sees a face twisting with grief so visually clamorous, he may as well have been wailing and ululating for the way it appeared.

Without warning, the other teen turns on his heel and flees, running off deep into the recesses of The Watchtower, clearly unable to stand the sight of the imposter standing in his best friend's place for any moment longer.

Tim feels numb, ice sliding into the tips of his fingers.

_“Conner!”_ Garfield shouts, the first to recover from shock. The first movement he makes is to go after him, but Victor's hand, steady and calm, comes down upon his shoulder. It stalls Garfield and halts him in his tracks.

“Maybe you should let Tim take this one,” he says grimly, a quick glance seeming to confirm whatever thought it is he has. “You can fill me in on the details while we wait.”

Garfield looks glum, but nods nonetheless, turning back to Tim with one glance. The parting expression is imploring, but one nonetheless filled with hopelessness and mourning.

Garfield already half expects Conner to cut and run on him again, for which Tim can't blame him, despite wishing the boy would have a little more faith. The pleading petition goes unsaid, but not unheard, he simply nods back by way of reply and takes off at a jog, following in the footsteps of the silhouette now long disappeared.

* * *

It's twenty minutes before Tim comes across a shadow sitting in the darkened lounge room outside what once was the quarters for interplanetary guests. The furnishings look almost new, despite them having no shine. Judging by the amount of dust and grime, he doesn't think anyone has been down here in a long time. It feels eerie and hauntingly similar to what remains of the Titans Tower.

Shaking the unhelpful thoughts loose, Tim focuses on the body before him, shoulders hunched against the spray of light from the open doorway.

Broaching the edge of the entrance, he sees Conner's faint shape. Both knees are drawn all the way up to his chest, pulled in tight, eyes staring out the large window to the space and cosmos beyond. Conner looks _devastated_. Tim honestly can't blame him.

Moving quickly and quietly, he eases himself down, scooting onto the lounge beside the super-powered teen, but maintaining a respectful distance of a few feet. The plain-clothes garb Conner currently wears bares no S-shaped symbol, but that's just another reminder that this isn't the same Superboy Tim left behind. The cracks between their worlds are small, but numerous. He wonders if _his_ Conner would be in the same position now if their situations were reversed in his universe. It's pointless to wonder, he knows, because their situations _aren't_ reversed; Conner is dead and Tim is here, in this universe, probably betraying the very memory best-friend and yet unable to stop himself from doing so.

To the tear tracks running down Conner's pale skin, he doesn't know what to say, though Tim tries a few times, opening his mouth and then closing it again when not a single useful thought comes to mind. In the semi-darkness, he can't help but think Conner looks plain unwell, but he dismisses the thought. _Conner is Superboy, half-kryptonian,_ unable to catch human illnesses. It's the shock, he concludes instead, the unhappiness.

Palms sweaty, clothes suddenly clingy and uncomfortable, he parses the words out with a stutter before reaffirming them for a second go-around. It's a simple apology.

“I–I'm sorry,” he tries, nervous, with stomach sinking like a stone. “I should have said… It should have been the first thing I told you.”

Wordlessly, the other boy looks up, but his face and blank stare are too unreadable for Tim to discern whether or not it is likely Conner will forgive him for this.

Tim's always prided himself on being able to read the room. Right now though, he can't tell if the hasty words and reckless apology mean anything at all. Maybe they don't. Maybe this has all been for nothing.

Still, he barrels on. If nothing else, he has to try. “I should have told you who I was from the get-go, before you made the decision to leave your home and your… your dad in Metropolis,” he says in a voice filled with regret and barely above a whisper. “That was… that was selfish of me. I'm sorry."

_Perhaps he really is all the worst parts of Bruce, maybe he's just as self-centred and selfish… all the parts of Bruce he told himself he'd never be._ It's a repeating thought. One he's had before. Many times. A record on a loop. The needle always skipping back, jumping the defect to simply repeat the process over and over again until the needle itself has worn down.

“Yeah,” says Conner on a breath, wiping away the almost invisible remnants of his crying with the back of his hand. He blinks at Tim once, salty wetness still clinging to his lashes. “You should have.”

The words aren't harsh, not by tone at least, but they still sting like the crack of a whip. “Although,” Conner unexpectedly adds around a light hitch in his breath. “I understand why you didn't.”

Head dropping, Tim's gaze meets the ground. He can't stand the guilt, despite what now sounds like the beginnings of forgiveness in Conner's voice. It feels as though his chest is compressing. He can't breathe around the twisted and thorny vines growing in his stomach. There's nothing good inside him. Only greed and selfishness.

Conner is better than him.

In every single way.

Conner can forgive.

If their positions were reversed, could Tim say the same?

“I just…” Conner continues, a fresh wave of tears hastily wiped away. “I thought I'd finally get to make it all up to you. To _him_ , I mean. I thought. I thought that if I could make everything right, maybe things would go back to the way they were. _Back before.”_

Tim nods numbly.

The admission slips out without thought. “I know what you mean.”

Immediately, he pointlessly wishes he could take the words back. Suddenly, he feels helplessly unsure. _Conner doesn't want to hear t_ _hose words_ _from the mouth of a replica,_ _a puppet_ _pretending to be his best friend._

There's a pause between them and it lasts a long time. Then Conner fidgets and there's a whisper no louder than a breath of air riding on a croak.

“I was there when he died, you know,” he says, then winces reflexively, like the words have burned him before.

Tim didn't know, but he's not surprised. Still, he cannot bring himself to look up. The timbre of Conner's voice carries only distress and he doesn't dare spare a glance.

“It was actually a mission in Gotham,” he huffs, half a mirthless laugh, sounding entirely upset. “Odd in itself you know, because Batman wasn't exactly fond of outsiders in his city.”

Tim knows, his own Bruce is exactly the same after all.

“But it was a Titan's mission,” Conner carries on, a tiny sniffle, covered by a cracked cough. “And Batman was off duty thanks to a League Mission the week before, laid up with several broken ribs, if I remember correctly. So it was up to the team. Us against T.O. Morrow.”

There's a hitch in his breath, a noise that could have been mistaken for a sigh if Tim had been under any impression that it wasn't truly a strangled sob.

“It was supposed to be a routine mission,” he begins anew, breathing deep and pressing on. “Nightwing had gathered intelligence that T.O. Morrow was working for someone. I don't remember all the details. I'm not sure I ever even knew them all in the first place. Regardless, there was… there was a bomb. Not a normal one, mind you,” he says, then adds, under his breath, “because it could _never_ be that easy,” before continuing _a tempo_ , in the same volume as before. “From what I understood, the bomb was supposed to fracture time and space. We all thought you―I mean _Robin_ ―had managed to diffuse it.”

With a shake of his head, Conner's eyes fall closed, two quick tears on his cheeks and then gone again in the blink of an eye. There is a slight pause before the disjointed train of thought brings his mouth back to work.

“I wasn't fast enough,” he whispers, so quietly Tim has to lean forward some to catch the raspy admission at all. “Tim was a whole block away. Bart had just sped past me and I remember Nightwing being overhead. It's… most of it's a blur, now.”

Space is infinitely quiet, Tim thinks as he glances out the widow. Only the stars are visible, little blips of light against a canvas of infinite darkness.

Beside him, Conner is scrubbing at the wet tracks trailing down his face again. Tim's sure his comfort is not welcome or wanted right now. It's easy to remain quiet and still as Conner talks, though. If nothing else, he can do that. The tiny, tight sobs bubble up and pop, leaving only harsh breathing in their wake. Tim's fingers twitch where they sit resting, curled up in loose fists upon his knees, aching to reach out and offer some kind of tangible comfort.

Finally, Conner wrestles the small, hiccups into submission. The stars twinkle prettily back at them. Tim waits. He doesn't move.

“That's when it happened,” Conner continues softly, sounding strangled again and as though each word has been forcibly wrenched from his mouth. “I saw the explosion. The whole block went up. No one really knew what to do.”

There's a lump in Tim's throat, making it hard to swallow. “Did Bart make it out okay?” he asks, tone cracking and splitting like splintering wood. He doesn't want to interrupt, but he has to know.

Conner nods twice, then stills. “Yeah,” he breathes, accompanying the nods. Almost glassy and red-rimmed eyes briefly dart over to him a moment later, then return to the dusty, unmoved coffee table in the center of the room. “Third degree burns on one of his arms and part of his leg, plus some severe grazing where the blast knocked him and sent him flying, but Bart's a speedster―he heals faster than most. It was the grieving that hit him hardest.”

Blinking out the window once again, Tim's mind drifts back to the suit in the glass case beside Jason's old Robin uniform. It couldn't have been the one his counterpart was wearing when he died, he distantly and numbly muses, that would have disintegrated in the blast. If the suit had been anything like his own at the time it would have protected him from fire, but certainly not _that_ amount of fire.

Losing two sons to two separate bombs would have been hard on Bruce, Tim thinks soberly, suddenly understanding the lack of a forth Robin. Even though, by some miracle, Jason had come back just as he had done so in Tim's own universe, Bruce's third son in this world had not.

This universe's Tim is still nothing but ash on a wind somewhere.

_And that's the problem, isn't it?_ He muses morosely. _The Timothy Drake in this universe was a beloved son._ So much so that Bruce, in his grief, had come to him and asked an unwanted Tim to fill the hollow space the loss had left in Bruce's life… or at least up until the point that he'd realised his son simply could not be replaced with a poor facsimile.

“I'm sorry,” Tim says then, still feeling numb in every muscle and bone, but luring Conner's confused gaze over. He cannot bear to meet the other boy's eyes, instead he simply blinks out at the bright star he is sure is probably a planet. Maybe it's Mars. He hopes so. He's always wanted to visit Mars. “That must have been hard.”

There's a thread loose on the pant leg of his out-of-date civvies and he picks at it. Somewhere in the other room with Victor and Garfield, his counterpart's Robin uniform from the Titan's Tower is stuffed into his backpack, dropped somewhere by the Zeta Tube at the sight of Garfield with a laser-gun pressed to his temple.

“It was,” Conner agrees, nodding, but not looking as though he is aware of doing so.

There's more silence and it settles between them for a long time once again. Maybe Tim could get used to this. Neither of them were ever the biggest talkers in the Titan's, but then again maybe that's a blessing.

What breaks the silence, however, is the unexpected action of Conner leaning over and wrapping his arms around Tim.

It's a hug, although it takes him a moment to register it. Carefully, he is held, as though fragile and made from glass. Tim freezes a moment, then, ever-so-slowly, winds his arms around Conner's back too.

“I missed you,” Conner mumbles into his shoulder.

Tim almost smiles, his lips twitching, arms tightening just a fraction.

“I missed you too,” he replies softly into the stale Watchtower air.

They both know they don't mean each other, but it feels kind of nice to pretend.

* * *

It seems like forever before either of them pull away, even longer before Conner shifts awkwardly on the couch and suggests they both head back to where Garfield and Victor are.

There's an awkward chuckle before he adds, “so long as neither of them have killed each other yet.”

Tim pins him with an unimpressed look, a blip of worry coursing through his chest before he is able to dismiss it entirely. “That's not funny,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.

Conner sighs, his shoulders slumping, after which he runs a hand through his dark hair, thicker and more curly than it appears at first sight. “I know,” he says sounding genuinely contrite, his voice losing its joking quality. “Sorry.”

“S'okay,” gives Tim with a shrug of his own and an understanding nod of acknowledgement. It's a defence mechanism. Deflecting, if only to put off the true hurt. “I'd still be pretty shaken up if I were you too.”

Conner glances over at him then, curious. “Why aren't you?” he asks. It's a question that quickly needs amendment. “I mean, you're awfully calm stuck in a world that isn't your own, surrounded by people with your friend's faces.”

Tim had hoped to avoid this question, but Conner's always been sharper than he gave him credit for―it seems this version of him is no different in that regard.

“The last year,” he begins slowly, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, each word carefully chosen. “Has been… a challenge.”

Conner, quirking an eyebrow, pulls a querying expression. “Elaborate,” he says, a statement, not a question. The flatness in his voice is all Luthor, but the little up-tick at the end is a habit. Tim remembers hearing it in the voice of the teen's counterpart. It's almost cute that this is a thing both Conner's seem to share.

Tim sighs. _Maybe it would be best to just… get it out._

“Batman died,” he blurts, blunt and brusque. “In my world he _died_ and…” And? _A_ _nd what else can he say?_ That he spiralled? Completely lost it. Worked with rogues and assassins without discrimination. Left his family after they made it pretty clear he wasn't wanted nor needed?

The hesitation lasts long enough that Conner draws the conclusion all on his own. “And it wasn't good?”

Tim shuts his mouth with an audible, sharp gnash of his teeth, then, jerkily, shakes his head. A tense movement that barely moves his chin even an inch either way.

Conner looks surprised. Then, the expression changes into something cautiously empathetic, though it seems he's not quite sure where to begin. “Do you…” he starts, unsure, then stops and tries again, his brow crinkled in the middle. “Do you want to talk about it?”

By now, Tim's used to pushing down the memories. Actively not thinking about them has become a favourite past-time.

“No,” he answers firmly, pressing his lips together tightly. Now that the box is open, the truth is out, all he desperately wants to do is seal it up again. It's different now, that he has admitted it aloud. “There's too much.”

Dropping his eyes to his fingers, he intertwines them together roughly.

There is. There's so much. Even if Tim _wanted_ to talk about it, he wouldn't even know where to begin.

Except he doesn't, because what good has talking about it done? Maybe this time would be different, it is Conner after all, but part of him is too scared to try. After opening up to Dick, to Steph, to Cassie, each and every time being shut down and disbelieved, opening himself up to the possibility of rejection again so soon feels like it might tear him apart.

“Okay,” Conner replies with a shrug, letting it float away easily. The bubble of anxiety in his chest bursts, then drops hard like a stone, settling in his stomach instead.

It's a beat before Conner opens his mouth again to speak.

Except Tim doesn't want any more questions, in fact he suddenly cannot think of anything worse than to be prodded for answers. To be scrutinised and examined. There's so much in the past and he doesn't even dare to _think_ about what he left behind, there's too much hurt there and there's only so many times he can keep visiting the past.

Abruptly, he stands. “Come on,” he begins rapidly, staccato quick. “Best get back.”

There's no time left for interjection or even the noise of confusion that Tim is half waiting for. It's barely a two-step tempo before he's out of the room, marching briskly back down the long, thin hall. Conner isn't given time to speak his piece, whatever it may be―pitying, sympathetic or otherwise. Tim doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want nor need it, because it would only add to the ache.

Superboy has to hastily make after him, marching swiftly to catch up, but only finally doing so once Tim is almost already in sight of the other Titans.

Garfield and Victor, he notes thankfully after rounding the corner, just as Conner falls into step beside him, are both whole and seem to be in one piece.

Garfield's voice, high and lively, is the first thing he hears. It's easy enough to pick out the voice, just as vociferous and volant as the boy himself.

From the sounds of things, Beast Boy seems to have filled the older hero in on most of it, his arms flailing wildly as he gesticulates around the spacious room. Whatever the tale Gar is recounting, it is an exciting one and only aided by the echo of the room.

Victor catches sight of Tim as he crosses the room, Conner less than half a step beside him, instantly and entirely seeming to lose interest in Beast Boy's story, much to the younger's mild chagrin.

“―and that's why,” Garfield finishes, Tim now coming into earshot. “We're getting the team back together! Titan's together!” He strikes a pose, but Victor doesn't tear his eyes away from Tim's form.

“You're older,” Cyborg says, blinking abruptly in quick succession, like a camera shutter clicking. “But you look just like him.”

Tim smiles. “Actually, we'd be about the same age…” he says, quietly, trailing off.

Instead of a frown, like Tim is fully expecting, Victor's face lights up. “Getting the Titan's together again too,” he chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder now that he is within reach. “Just like he would have.”

The smile on Tim's face suddenly feels like a façade.

“Y-yeah,” he says, a tense, tight coil wrapping around his lungs. The false, injected shine in his voice loses it's brilliance, leaving Tim only praying that the rest do not notice its sudden disappearance. “That's… that's the plan, anyway.”

Victor's face dips into a quick frown, puzzled confusion briefly crossing his expression before easing up in intensity.

“Why?” he asks then, tipping his head to the side. “Why would you bother? This isn't your world, we aren't _your_ Titans. What's the point? What's your plan?”

It isn't like he wasn't expecting the question at some point from _someone_ , he just didn't think it would be Victor posing it. Quickly, he takes a sharp breath, filling his lungs to capacity before puffing it all out on one rapid exhalation. The sound of it silences the room, some audible tension escaping with it.

“I can't go home,” he answers truthfully, momentarily wondering if the team at home have even noticed his absence. They're just about as broken as the Titan's here, but there's no space for him there anymore. Tim's not _Robin_ in his own universe anymore. And the Titans deserve a _Robin_ , not the washed-up, jaded hero he's become. Damian will step into his place easily, just as he did at Wayne Manor, just as he did in the Batcave. As young and inexperienced as he is, Tim still has no doubt that the boy will eventually surpass him in skill. After all, Tim always was the least qualified Robin.

“I can't go home,” he repeats, clearing his throat this time. “I… I don't _belong_ there anymore. I knew that _long_ before I came here, I just… I guess was just in denial.”

Tim takes another breath, just as deep as before, but this one hitches audibly in his throat.

“I just wanted a _family_ again,” he admits, sounding far too wet and small. “The Titan's in my universe were… they were my family. They were my family for so long and I just… I wanted that back. So, I saw my opportunity here and I took it. Is that such a bad thing?”

The question, for Victor, is thrown out at the same time he draws his eyes up, meeting one dark brown iris, marred still with confusion, but gaining a lick of sorrow and an undercurrent of dawning understanding.

“I thought I wanted to bring you all back with me,” he says, deferring his eyes to Conner briefly, then dropping them to the floor. In another time, before the Justice League was in tattered pieces, Tim probably would have been able to see his face reflected back up at him from the surface of the floor. Now, all he can see is his vague and blurry outline. “I thought I wanted to take you to my universe, somehow… somehow _convince_ you, but I've come to realise I don't want to go back. I _want_ to stay here. I want to be a Titan _here_.”

Garfield smiles at him softly when his eyes dart up again, meeting all three stares briefly, gauging their reactions.

“I know your Tim is gone,” he says with a shake of his head. “And I won't try to replace the person you lost,” he continues, making eye-contact with Conner for a second time. “But if you'll let me, I want to stay.”

Quiet falls over the room as his final words echo out and fade, leaving nothing but the silence of space surrounding them.

Tim doesn't know what he expects, not really, but it certainly isn't for Conner to jerk forward and pull him into a bone-crushing hug. The other boy, a whole head taller than Tim, is easily able to rest his chin on the crown of his head just as Garfield leaps over with an inhumanly large bound and wraps his own arms around Tim's middle too.

Although he can't see Victor from his new found position, trapped between two sets of strong arms, he knows the man is smiling as he wraps all three of them up in a hug, chuckling as he does.

“Of course you can stay,” Garfield replies, joyful, a small bell-like laugh breaking free. “Dummy.”

Above him, Tim can feel the jerk of Conner's pointy chin nodding too, and Victor elects to simply ruffle his hair as he pulls away, releasing the three of them.

“We would be happy to have you,” the oldest Titan says then with a wink. “And I'm sure, though he isn't here with us, _our_ Tim would appreciate all the effort you're putting in to bring us all back together.”  
  
Conner claps him on the shoulder. “I can't think of a better way to honour his memory,” he adds, under his breath, hand squeezing his shoulder for a short time before falling away.

Garfield turns, angled towards Victor as he sighs and shakes his head. “If only we knew where Cassie was,” he huffs, dejected. “Or Bart for that matter.”

Victor tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth, looking unsure when he speaks again.

“I don't think you're going to like this,” he says, appearance suddenly nervous and a little guilty. Conner pitches forward, half a step towards Cyborg as Garfield's eyes widen and his expression blooms into one of surprise.

“Cassie…” he starts, then stops and worries his bottom lip a little longer, clearly trying to choose his words with care. “Cassie called me about a month ago.”

Conner blinks once. Then frowns.

Garfield, on the other hand, looks crushed.

“She… she called you?” he asks in a voice no bigger than a whisper. The green teen looks _devastated_ , and Tim can't blame him in the least. As the sole occupant of the Titans tower, Garfield had been the only member clinging to the hope that one day the team would once again come back together, at least until Tim had unceremoniously arrived. If Tim had been in Garfield's position, he would have been grieved and hurt by a lack of correspondence from Cassie too.

Victor simply nods.

“I haven't heard anything from her since,” he adds, adopting a slight frown and a curve of worry to his brow. “She didn't… she didn't sound good then.”

Victor shifts from one foot to the other before drifting his gaze across from Garfield to Tim. “You have to understand,” he begins. “That after you― _I mean,_ our _Tim_ ―died, she went a little bit off the rails.” The oldest Titan shakes his head then, continuing with a sharper edge of concern. “She called me in the middle of the night―said she was off to Baghdad for some reason. I don't know why, I never got the chance to ask.”

“Tim,” Conner interrupts candidly, narrow stare eyeing Victor with a degree of confusion and an undercurrent of suspicion that Tim believes might have been learned during the super boy's time with Luthor. “ _Our_ Tim died years ago, though. You said she messaged you only a month ago.”

Victor nods in return. “That's right,” he says, lips pale and voice tense, eyes meeting Conner's with a despairing intensity that Tim had rarely seen in his own version of the man. “I'm not going to lie to you, she sounded _insane_. Deranged, at the very least.” Victor pauses to lick his lower lip before continuing: “We all know she didn't take Tim's death well. I… I _thought_ it was just grief. Maybe it _was_ , but… when she called. She started ranting about having found the elixir of life. The holy grail, or something, I'm not sure. She claimed a body was needed for them to work. I told her what we all already knew: there _was_ no body. _Tim was gone and he wasn't coming back._ Cassie said she knew that, that was why she was off to see somebody. She never told me who. Last place I could track her to was Baghdad.”

The pieces are slow to come together in Tim's mind.

Then, without warning, they click. Pieces of a puzzle coming together with swift surety.

Garfield is the first to notice the change. Tim's pretty sure the colour has all but entirely drained from his face.

“Tim?” he says, hesitant and unsure.

A hand comes up to cover his mouth, to hide his trembling lip before he can breathe deeply and steady himself.

The others turn to him then too.

Tim sucks in a lungful of air. “I… I have a hunch,” he says, weakly. “I think I know where we'll find her.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian is sad :( while Garfield is obnoxiously cheerful ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Just a quick update: I haven't been and likely will not respond to all of your wonderful, lovely comments from here on out. I read them and absolutely love them, however, since I'm basically blitzing through this for Nanowrimo, it leaves me very little time in the week to reply. My options kind of end up being: write, or reply to comments :| so yeah. However, I just wanted to let you all know how much I appreciate your kind words and support, it means the world!

_The common room of the Titan's tower, although spacious in its own right, is still much smaller than Pru is initially expecting. It's a room to fit six or seven teens and certainly not a member more._

_Thick layers of dust cover most surfaces, only the most frequented being exempt, such as the kitchen and the lounge, the latter of which is sunken and decorated with ugly, vibrant green sofas. Those most frequented places, though, are also the most_ dirty. _Fast food containers, half-empty beverages and empty snack packets lay scattered about. It's filthy and disgusting and Pru would rather be anywhere else; the sight of it makes her skin crawl. She doesn't dare touch anything, let alone run her finger through the dust on the counter-top to see if it truly is such a horrific shade of purple._

No adult decorated this interior, _she thinks to herself with a sniff._ _The room and the décor feel 70s inspired, but the execution is beyond the pale._

_Batman too wrinkles his nose as he looks around the room, but it does not stop him from taking up a place on the green love-seat and dragging a rather reluctant looking Robin down with him by the forearm. There's really no room for a third person on the seat, but it doesn't seem to give pause to Nightwing, who simply perches on the arm instead, looking overly sincere and heartfelt past pleasant. To his credit, the cerulean striated vigilante does his absolute best not to look too disquieted by his surroundings, but none of them, not even Pru are entirely fooled by it._

It must be so strange for them, _she thinks, feeling a pinch of pity in her stomach, though remaining quite careful in keeping the expression off her features._ To be in a universe so entirely like their own, meeting people similar enough for it to be like staring down a mirror. To be in places that _look_ the same, yet _feel_ nothing alike.

_Prudence remains grateful that she has not met her own counterpart yet. She prays it stays that way._

_Bruce Wayne, having slid off the cowl a short time ago, frowns down at his youngest son, but the concern far outweighs what little anger exists in his face. To Pru's perceptive gaze, at least._

_Damian refuses to meet neither his father's unblinking stare, nor that of his older brother. Steadfastly, he clasps his interlocked and white knuckled fingers between his knees and stares down. Both the boy's knees squeeze together tightly, the action holding his hands firmly in place._

_Dick runs a reassuring palm through the child's linearly straight shock of dark hair, but it serves to work contrary to its intention, doing nothing other than making Damian jump and look all the more uneasy in his seat, squirming just a little. The young boy's face, peaky and pale, plainly gives away his nervousness, accompanied by a thrum of anxiety that almost throbs audibly off his small but athletic frame in the quiet of the musty room._

_The child's father wastes no time in getting to the point, but it's a gentle, parental tone, not the cold and calculating voice she is expecting._

“ _Alright, Damian,” begins the man not unkindly in a timbre that is circumspect, but attentive. “I think it has come time for you to explain what you meant earlier―you said that you_ cut _Tim's line?”_

_Every word, every rise and fall of his voice is measured and oh-so-careful. It's a skill Pru does not have, a softness she's never been able to acquire. Her vocabulary, only unlimited when it came to colourful curses and exclamatory expletives, has little room for words of solicitude or solace. She doesn't know who to blame for that, other than herself; she's always been the brash one, the loud one, the one to wear her heart on her sleeve, shoot now question later. Always. Up until her two best friends and the only people in the world she considered family were murdered in some brutal and sick joke of a game. Now, she's not sure of anything anymore._

_The man's voice is not at all harsh, but the young Robin flinches regardless, as though he is unconsciously still expecting_ something _. The arched, downward curve of his neck sharpens and the upward rise of his shoulders increases, his ears dipping to meet them._

“ _When did you cut Tim's line?” Batman asks, still just as peaceable as before, if not moreso. His head sits on a leftward tilt, eyes searching, diligently catching every slight twitch and subtle tremble._

_Damian snorts softly, derisory, but when he speaks she quickly works out the contemptuous tone is for himself alone._

“ _Does it matter?” he spits, bitterly. There's regret in his posture, she notes curiously, once again struck by how different_ this _child is compared to the one she knew when she aligned and devoted herself to Ra's al Ghul. The boldness, while still there, isn't as sharp. The anger, judgement and the hidden fear, there is less of that too. At least towards others. To himself, it appears to remain just as whetted._

“ _Does it matter when,” he speaks again, just as scathing as before. Damian's hands crawl out from between his locked knees and curl into half-fists atop them. The words fall out of his mouth, and then, they almost seem to drop straight into his awaiting hands, the truth nothing less than invisible weights pinning him down, manacled to him by compunction. “Or only that it did?”_

_Bruce chews on that a moment, thoughtfully studying the child beside him with a furrowed brow and a face full of fretting, before finally clearing his throat with a small grunt._

“ _I suppose not,” he acquiesces slowly to the question, his eyes never losing their shrewd candour, forcefully narrowed by his wrinkled forehead. “Though will you at least tell me why?”_

_The bitter expression on the child's face melts away just a little, enough to allow a sliver of regret―as true and genuine as Pru has ever seen it―to eke through. It's an emotion not for others, but for the boy himself._

“ _I know I shouldn't have done it, I―.” He stops. The prepubescent voice cracks to a halt, the split like that of a twig snapping beneath a sturdy boot. “It was a mistake.”_

_It is clear the boy is repentant for his deeds, of that Pru is sure, but as she rests her whole frame against the wall on the close side, she wonders if it is because he truly feels penitent over his actions, or simply because the guilt of Tim's leaving has dragged the admission out of him. Would he have said anything otherwise?_

_If nothing else, it's an answer Pru is quite sure she will never get. There is, after all, no use in wondering what the alternative would have looked like―which is oddly amusing in itself, for if there were any place to wonder about alternative futures, it would be here, in this universe, where Timothy Drake never did live to his sixteenth birthday._

_Dick, beside him, looks horribly torn. The eldest of the Wayne sons wants to submit to the horrifying reality that he nearly almost lost one brother at the hand of another, while the sympathy of his bleeding heart pounds at the door to his compassion. Aside from the few details of Tim's departure from Wayne manor that the teen himself deigned to share with her, she knows very little else about the circumstances of his leaving. What she_ does _know, however, is that Richard Grayson has chosen Damian over Tim before. The cynical side of her refuses to be mollified into thinking he'll do less than that again, if push comes to shove._

_However, the situation has changed. Bruce is here now, with them. The man that Tim himself worked tooth and nail to retrieve from the hand of death. Additionally, the boy himself seems to have matured―now, it seems, Damian knows his actions cannot be taken back. In that, there is hope for him yet. Prudence's musing draws a smirk to her lips, but she keeps it to herself._

“ _I wanted to prove―” the child starts anew, before cutting himself off for a second time. “Well. It matters not now, I suppose.”_

_Bruce's tone turns more serious then, the oldest Wayne leaning in a little closer, his voice more reminiscent of Batman's gravel and grit. There is, however, solely one question on his mind, it appears._

“ _Was he hurt?” he asks, softly. Chiefly, the most prominent emotion in his voice is worry encompassed by fear, but there is a hint of hurt and presence of pain there too, all behind a façade of strength, loyalty and leadership―the mantle of Batman unable to be put down until his last breath._

 _Despite what Prudence knows Tim believes, she herself cannot deny that his family cares for him. His father most of all. It grieves her that he does not know it, that he left on such a mournful note. If he cannot believe_ them _when they finally find him, she hopes that at least he will believe her. What he does with the information after that is entirely up to him. However, at the very least, she feels a need to share what she has learned. It won't and should not change his own feelings toward his family. The effort of bringing Tim back to them is solely on the shoulders of the Wayne family, but it may chip open a crack of doubt in Tim's mind that things are not all they truly appear to him. It may at least give him_ hope.

_God, when did she become such a sap?_

_Damian shakes his head by way of answer, his half-curled fingers twitching faintly on his knees. In spite of the response, the older man presses him again, more urgently this time._

“ _Nothing?” he questions with sober gravitas. “No broken bones, no injuries?”_

_Once more, the young Robin shakes his head mutely, his shoulders seeming to climb ever higher._

“ _Nothing,” he affirms, faltering weakly on the second syllable, his loose fists curling up now, palms facing downwards, knuckles tucked in tight. “Drake―he managed to catch himself on the way down.”_

_There's a flash of panic in his eyes before the child's voice spikes in both volume and pitch, shooting up an octave as he almost rasps his defense._

“ _This wasn't like the time with the dinosaur, father!” he says with an alarming yell, the statement taking on a rather entreating quality. “I swear it! I swear it upon the mantle of Robin.”_

_Bruce simply and calmly places a palm on the boy's shoulder. The fingers there give a hard squeeze._

“ _It's alright, Damian,” he says, a tranquillity in his tone that Pru believes may actually calm the child's obvious panic. “I believe you.”_

_From behind her, Todd's voice shoots out of the shadows. “There was a time with a dinosaur?” he asks, stepping forward, approaching the small scene with the slightest amount of tension in his shoulders and hesitancy in his gait. The low whistle he produces is an attempt at diversion, the words to back it up more nonchalant than she suspects is real. “Guess I missed a lot, huh?”_

“ _Things were not good then,” Dick snaps suddenly, defensive of Damian, Pru thinks, or himself even, to which Jason simply cocks his head to the side as his eyes draw narrow. It's a defence mechanism of his own, a bramble-esque hedge, a thorny front to prevent anyone from seeing or sensing the man behind it._

_Though even Pru knows there's more to that story, Jason wisely chooses not to pursue it and is rewarded when Nightwing clears his throat, voice losing the blunt edge of anger, a sharp knife dulled. “That was… it was just after Damian arrived at the manor.” An ample amount of regret leaks into his voice._

_Dawning realisation appears on Jason's face. Apparently it means_ something _to him. To Pru, it does not._

_Batman shifts the conversation, taking control of it once more._

“ _So, it wasn't like the time with the dinosaur,” he establishes calmly, with a nod. Oh, how Pru longs to know what happened with the dinosaur. “What_ did _happen, then?”_

_Damian sucks in a deep breath, unsteady and halting as it is. If Prudence didn't know any better, she'd have thought he looked ready to cry. However, before the boy can open his mouth, Bruce makes one simple addition, his voice quiet and easy._

“ _Go from the beginning, Damian,” he says, moving his hand from off the boy's shoulder until he has the child pulled up close and tucked into his side. “Start from there.”  
  
And Damian, with a shuddered, but deep breath to steel himself, does._

* * *

The last time Tim travelled to the League of Assassins it was in a medi-van, barely conscious and surrounded by ninjas. Beside him, Pru had been bleeding out from her neck, an enormous bloody gash oozing scarlet onto her alabaster skin, her face only growing paler with each passing minute.

Distinctly, he remembers dawn breaking over the horizon. Vividly, he recalls the light of the early sun glancing off her earring―a silver cross with a ruby centre, something he had yet to see her take off. It felt odd to know that, _now,_ he never would. Not given how unlikely it was that they would ever meet again.

For every minute after making it to the Jeep, but before waking up in Ra's compound, the details were fuzzy. All Tim knew was that Prudence and he were the sole survivors that day. Their fates intertwined and bound from then on, though the latter parts of this did not really become clear to him until much later.

Tim had drifted in and out for a time in that medi-van, only really noting the haphazard bandages on Pru's neck, but also catching the fear, manifesting as a faint wetness around the edges of her eyes.

There had been doctors there, looming over him, securing intravenous lines and other medical contraptions to his failing body, but all Tim could really remember was the terrified look on Pru's face.

Less than a week prior, Prudence and her team, Owens and Z, had tried for his life several times, the most memorable being one particular episode with a rocket launcher. Even back then he had wondered what it said about him that he was more willing to put his hands in the life of a woman he barely knew, and one who had made multiple attempts on his life at that, than he was his family. Tim had been travelling into the territory of a mad-man beside one of his most loyal subjects and yet he'd felt strangely safe as passed out. _However_ , the last time Tim had visited the League, lost his spleen and worked for an immortal man with psychopathic tendencies, it had been in an entirely different universe.

“The… League of _Assassins…”_ says Garfield in utter disbelief, staring at him wide-eyed and unblinking.

The three Titan's gape at him as though he's lost his mind.

Tim shrugs, drawing his shoulders nearly up to his ears before quickly letting them fall again. “That's where I think she went,” he says simply.

Victor's human hand comes up to rub the side of his head briefly, but vigorously. A tired and worn expression creeps onto his face, but it's nonetheless one of reluctant agreement. For a second, the older Titan looks as though he wants to curse loudly and prolifically, but the moment passes and his face falls into that of despairing resignation.

“That…” he begins, slowly, a sigh accompanying his words. “That actually a lot of sense. There's a Zeta Tube in the American consulate in Baghdad. Cassie could have transported into Iraq from wherever she was in the world, then crossed through Iran and into Pakistan in a matter of hours. Given the speeds she can get up to when flying, well, it isn't like it would be _difficult_ for her. She's just as fast as Conner, if not faster.”

At the sound of his own name, Conner flinches, but his face looks no less disturbed than before as he continues to gape and consider the merits of Tim's theory. If anything, his expression only grows more uneasy the longer he is allowed to dwell on it.

Eventually, the agitation becomes too much for him. “Why the League of Assassin's?” he blurts, brow nearly knit together with anxiety, his lower lip pushing the left side of his mouth up in twisted grimace. “Why on _earth_ would she go there?”

Tim isn't sure if it is lucky that he has the answer or _unlucky._ “Lazarus pit,” he answers, giving a strong, single nod of his head. One arm, folded across his chest and over the other, perks up as though dragged vertical by the plumb pointer soon standing at attention. “There's a Lazarus pit there, the base is built over it. I know because I've seen it.”

At this, Garfield only looks more confused. The green teen's forehead is wrinkled up with so many lines and Tim, briefly, with no small amount of amusement, thinks he may have to take an iron to it in order to get them all out. The sourness of Gar's expression does little to save the betrayal of concern that is most obvious.

“What is a Lazarus pit?” he asks, sucking in a slow breath that whistles past his teeth, bracing himself for an answer.

The question sends Tim reeling, then it propels him backward, thoughts flying into the past to determine at what point he―and subsequently following the rest of the Titan's―had learned of their existence.

Tim looks around at the three of them, blank faces staring back at him.

With Jason returned, they should all know of the pit's existence.

It seems to be just another one of those odd gaps, fragile cracks, that prove to Tim this world and his world really are different universes. There isn't really any time to dwell upon it though, at stake is Cassie's life and every second they waste could be the difference.

Eventually, Tim decides to simply start with the basics.

“It's a natural phenomenon,” he says, matter-of-factly, like he's back at school and giving a science presentation. “It has _restorative_ properties, if they can really be called that. The waters of a Lazarus pit can heal injuries and… and even heal the mortally or terminally ill. My guess is that Cassie thought she could somehow harness and use the pit to bring your Tim back to life, though I have no notion of how she planned to do this―to use a pit she would require his body. There's only so much the waters can do.”

Victor sighs for a second time.

Conner's panic only seems to increase.

Garfield looks anxious enough to bite his own fingernails off.

None of them, it seems, dare to even wonder aloud on where they presumed Cassie might find the empty shell of a Tim Drake.

“What happens if you enter a pit and you're _not_ ill or wounded?” Conner asks, pressing his lips together until they're white with worry, distracting Tim from his own particularly worrying thoughts.

For the shortest second, his eyes flutter closed as he draws in a sharp breath through his nose. “Nothing good,” he replies, finally opening them again. “Death.”

Garfield curses quietly under his breath as he turns away, running a hand through his ivy coloured hair whilst he paces. The teen takes several strides away from the group, pauses, then turns and takes several steps back again, never losing the apprehensive countenance.

Victor, as if making an ill-timed joke towards his own name, turns to stone, his prominent cheekbones made all the sharper by the rigidity with which he stands.

Conner appears the least affected, but then maybe, Tim supposes, Superboy has already filled his quota of emotional roller-coaster today. The other raven-haired Titan brings his hands up until they are resting on his hips, staring past Victor with unseeing eyes as he processes and plans.

“We need to get down there,” he adds, one long minute later, looking around at the collective of faces, each with a wildly different emotion expressing. “We need to find her. Ra's does not take kindly to trespassers and,” Tim gestures to Victor with one open palm, “given that Cyborg hasn't heard from her for over a month, I'm beginning to suspect the worst.”

The words seem to shake Garfield from his pacing stupor. “The _worst?!”_ he shrieks in a tone reminiscent of a seagull, grabbing at his own elbows with opposite hands and gripping them tight. “What is the _'_ _worst!?_ _'_ ”

“Well it certainly isn't anything good,” snaps Conner in return, unfocused eyes suddenly narrowing to fix on Garfield's slightly trembling form. The tension in the room is like a live-wire, an electric current running through the air.

“ _Calm down, you two,”_ Victor barks, firmly and loudly enough to silence them immediately. “There's no point in speculating what state you may find her in. We need action and we need to take it _now.”_

Just as quickly, the stress swelling in the room fizzles out as fast as it had appeared.

Tim gives a jerky head movement, something that isn't quite a nod, but nonetheless agreeing. _They need to get to her as quickly as possible._ Tim pales at the thought of what Ra's may have done to her if she has in fact been in his hands for a month. Sure, Cassie was Wonder Girl, but even his own Batman―still fighting fit and in the vigilante game―had trouble when up against the Demon Head, Ra's al Ghul.

Another shudder runs down the length of Tim's spine, the hairs on his arms rising.

“The closest Zeta tube is in India,” Victor says, turning on his heel and motioning for the rest to follow. Garfield quickly falls in line and Conner jogs a step to catch up with Tim. “I can get you in, but after that you're on your own.”

Tim's feet skid to a halt at the same time his brain does unwittingly, his shoes squeaking on the _not-shiny_ flooring.

“You're not coming?” he asks, bewildered, feeling his expression explode outwards at all angles with confused astonishment. “You're going to stay here, in The Watchtower?”

Victor pauses only for a brief moment, half turning back with his sole eyebrow arched in a manner that Tim wouldn't have called out of place on _Alfred's_ face.

“If I don't,” he begins, every word heavier than the last, invisible weighs pulling his voice down until he sounds brittle, tired and old. “There's no guarantee you'll be able to get back.”

With that, Cyborg picks up his feet again and presses forward. Every one of his strides is two of Tim's, and the younger Titan has to hurry to catch Victor's next sentence.

“The Watchtower is solar-powered,” he explains with a small, outward gesture of his left hand that points at nothing in particular. “It's core is powered by the sun. Zeta tubes, on the other hand, are not. They're battery powered. If they weren't they wouldn't stay operational in places that don't get a lot of sun―” eyebrow still arched, his gaze momentarily flicks over to Tim again as he adds: “―Gotham, for instance―.”

“―or caves!” Garfield interrupts with a chirp, clearly thinking of the gateway in Metropolis.

Victor nods in acknowledgement. “Or caves,” he agrees. “However, if I stay, I can remotely charge the tubes using The Watchtower's core. In essence, I can provide you power to certain gateways, or even better, charge up the one's I know you'll need. It takes up a lot of The Watchtower's computer processing, which is why I haven't been keeping up to date with so many of the gateways around the world. It's just too much time to waste every week on something going entirely unused.”

The four of them ingress into a second room, vastly smaller than the immense hall. This room, however, has a computer system. It's the very first thing his eyes land on. _T_ _he control room,_ Tim quickly identifies at around the same time his roaming eyes come to rest on a small cot in the corner.

The sight of it makes his chest twist painfully.

_Just as Garfield has been alone at the Titan's Tower for so many years, Victor has been alone at The Watchtower, overseeing the parts of the Justice League that were left behind._

Victor gracefully eases himself into the singular office chair, which depreciates under his weight. The action is swift but smooth, a gesture done one thousand times before. With fingers like lightning, schematics flash up on the several monitors situated before them.

“Zeta tubes…” murmurs Conner, echoing aloud Tim's thoughts.

Each gate appears named and numbered, their operational status marked in either red or green.

As though by an unseen force, Tim's eyes wander each screen until his gaze slides to a stop over the name: _Gotham._ There are three gateways in Gotham, but in this universe, Tim has only seen the location of one―the one in the Batcave. It's the third on Victor's list, baring the in-operational label in harsh, stark scarlet.

Victor's finger taps a different screen three times, the image of a Zeta tube increasing in size upon it. The label below it reads the gate's number and location― _New Delhi,_ with a corresponding number in the hundreds.

“That's the closest I can get you,” Victor says, reclining back in his chair and proceeding to drag his gaze over to Tim, looking rather uneasy about the eyes as he goes. “And there's no quick, easy way to get to Islamabad,” he sighs, before amending: “Well, for Conner, _maybe,_ seeing as how he can fly and all, but for you and Garfield… Let's just say there isn't really an easy route.”

Tim tips his head back, casts his own tired stare to the ceiling a moment, then drops his chin back again. It's during times like this that he _really_ misses the state of the art vehicles in the bottom of the Batcave. _Hell,_ he'd settle for his own little Redbird right about now.

“Not an easy trip,” he says finally, trying to keep the heavy sigh out of his voice. It's code for: _You're hitch-hiking._

Victor winces in sympathy. “Not at all,” he commiserates lowly. “It's going to be a rough journey, I'm afraid.”

It is then that, without warning, Garfield throws his hands on his hips, spins on the heel of one foot and laughs loudly. Suddenly, it seems as though the teen has not a care in the world.

Startled, the other three Titan's in the room jump and each swivel their head in confusion.

“Easy schmeezy,” says Garfield with a flap of his hand, the attention now entirely turned to him. The laughter in his voice dies away, but the grin left in its wake never quite disappears. “We're _Titan's!_ When have things ever been easy? If we wanted easy we'd have never signed up for this gig in the first place, but we _did._ And you know what?”

Conner exchanging an amused glance with Tim, reluctantly humours Garfield. “What?” he asks, twisting his mouth wryly.

“When you're a Titan, you're not a Titan alone,” replies Garfield You're a Titan _together.”_

* * *

The Titan's, minus Cyborg, change into their uniforms in preparation for the trip. Next, they pull spare civilian clothing on over the top, outfits meant for members of the Justice League on missions over a decade ago. The fashion is certainly left wanting. Garfield makes his distaste of it well-known with several choice words and a wrinkle of his nose.

“It's time to go,” Conner says solemnly, quietly, emerging from the other side of the lockers. “It'll be dawn in India any moment now. Victor wants to get us there before the city starts to bustle.”

Tim turns, ready to acknowledge the words, when he is pulled up short. A quiet breath draws in of its own volition, fast, but silent. _The leather jacket Conner wears is nothing like the black leather his counterpart used to wear,_ in fact, it's brown and just a tad too broad in the shoulders for Conner, _but the sight of it nonetheless sends a jolt down Tim's spine._

“Nice jacket,” he offers, turning away again as fast as he can without drawing suspicion. Tim focuses on the buckle of his belt, clearly fastening it much tighter than it's previous wearer ever did, he surmises based on the used holes.

Conner smiles, the most cheerful expression Tim has seen on his face all day.

“Thanks!” he exclaims brightly, swivelling left then right, craning his neck to get a better look at the garment. “I think it was Green Arrow's."

Tim attempts an absent hum, but the noise comes out just a fraction too strangled. Thankfully, Conner doesn't seem to notice.

“You guys ready―? Garfield asks, announcing his presence to the room as he emerges in an outfit that might have once fit Barry Allen, or maybe even belonged to his successor, Wally West, before his eyes flit over to Conner and his question runs into an impressed sounding statement. “ _Woah_ , nice jacket!”

“Thanks,” Conner repeats, mouth widening into a grin. “Might even keep it.”

With that, Tim checks the utility belt hidden beneath his baggy civilian clothes and gives an affirming nod to Garfield's assessing glance. While the others turn to go, Tim's fingers dip into one of the small pouches around his waist, fingers enclosing around the small, lead tin. He had almost forgotten it was there, the kryptonite unassuming inside. 

Briefly, Tim debates removing it. Leaving the tin with the kryptonite in one of the lockers in The Watchtower, but at the last minute he decides otherwise.

The tin goes back into his utility belt, the clasp fastened overtop.

Tim turns and follows Garfield and Conner.

The three of them trundle out into the main hall where Victor is waiting for them on the platform to which the Zeta Tube connects, a keen eye lingering on each of them for a moment before moving on to the next.

“Good luck,” is all he says, squaring his shoulders and giving them one solitary nod before turning to the Zeta tube and punching in coordinates.

None of them say anything in return, but Tim pats his arm as he passes, following behind Garfield and Conner. They have their journey all planned out.

The two other Teen Titan's disappear into the Zeta tube, the machine seeming to gobble them up to the untrained eye. However, before Tim can follow after the pair, Victor's hand strikes out, grabbing his arm in an almost bruising, too-tight grip.

“Tim, wait―” he starts, then immediately stops, bringing Robin to a forceful, jerky halt. Cyborg momentarily worries his lip, then shakes out whatever doubt he seems to have. “Just. _Good luck,_ ” he says breathlessly, as though someone has stolen his breath out from inside his lungs. _“_ And don't die this time, okay?”

It's not a promise Tim can keep, not really, and Victor knows it, but nonetheless he nods anyway, gripping the older Titan's forearm with a strong, near-bruising grasp of his own in return.

“I'll come back, Vic,” he answers, injecting as much steel and resolve as he is able into his voice. “I promise. I'll come back this time.” Maybe it's a lie, maybe it's not. Neither of them really know.

A deep, single, sonorous noise bursts forth from Victor's lips, the overwhelming emotion entangled with it immediately wrestled into submission as he makes a grab for Tim's much smaller frame, yanking him forward into a spine-cracking embrace.

It's a swift, fast hug. Barely there, then gone again, Batman-like in its efficiency. Victor breaks away with the same amount of roughness he began the embrace with, no sign of curtained wetness around his eyes when they pull apart. It's somethingwhich Tim cannot help but think is probably for the best.

“I know you will,” he whispers, squeezing Tim's forearm again. Quickly, Victor slips something into his hand, saying nothing about it―whatever _it_ is. Tim doesn't open his hand to look.

That's all that is said.

There are no goodbyes or farewells. Nothing that might indicate to either of them that this could be the end. Neither of them want to hear it, neither of them dare to voice it.

Tim, dressed in a Robin uniform that isn't really his yet somehow feels exactly as though it is, with civvies thrown over the top to hide the bullet-proof armour, spins on the ball of his left foot and takes his first step with his right.

The Zeta tube sucks him in and, just like before, the sensation of popping candy all over his body becomes overwhelming as his ears split and his lungs freeze. Then, as quickly as it all began, he's through to the other side, Garfield and Conner awaiting him.

Finally, Tim, with vision still slightly blotted around the edges and with the world still partly spinning as though he is caught in a kaleidoscope, opens his hand.

In it is a tiny tracker, along with a note.

Tim pockets them both without reading the message sent along. He's sure he already knows what it says.

A message of good luck isn't needed now, though.

The time for well wishes is past.

The smell of the stale Watchtower air leaves his lungs on one breath and humidity draws in on the next. Tim's entire world shifts.

“You ready?” Conner asks, his voice somehow sounding distant and far off to Tim's ears despite the fact that the other teen stands right beside him.

“Yeah,” Tim nods, “I'm ready.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations while journeying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter got a little out of hand length wise... at this point I can't guarantee the next one will be any shorter either, but I'm trying my best. It's mix and match canon, and was edited in chunks so no promise of quality assurance 😅.

_Travelling via the Zeta tubes in the basement of the Titan's Tower is hands down one of the strangest experiences Prudence has ever had. It's disorientating and confusing―not to mention the fact that even the machine itself seems confused at having a second Batman pass through it, giving off little whirs and beeps, though fortunately no errors pop up. It lights up with colours as varied as a holiday Ferris wheel, their vibrancy quite stark against the crisp white of the basement walls._

_Batman programs in a code for her, a quicker process than she expected it to be, but that is the last of their delays to The Watchtower._

_Nightwing goes first, followed by Red Hood, Robin, Batman and then herself. Prudence listens in muted wonder as the machine reads out her code, followed by her name, as she breeches the other side with no less aplomb than the rest._

_However, the poise, self-assurance and silent fascination in and of the journey only last as long as the trip itself. Prudence is near instantaneous in the speed in which she up-chucks the remnants of nearly digested food in her stomach over the railing on the other side._

_Strangely, the rest of the group seem to be expecting it―given the way they all hasten to be out of range as quickly as possible. That tells her, at least, that she isn't the first to have lost their lunch on a trip through a tube. Though, it doesn't really make her feel any better about it._

_Robin dodges by leaping off the platform first, his heavy combat boots hitting the floor with less sound than one might expect, likely landing on the balls of his feet to quieten the impact. The cape of black and yellow barely makes a flutter as it briefly whips with the movement. The rest of the group are quick to follow, with Nightwing entirely noiseless in his movements, even moreso than the young boy before him, and Red Hood the loudest, brash with his mien of lawlessness, seeming not to care who hears him. They leave Pru clutching the railing with one hand and wiping the vomit off the side of her mouth with the back of the other._

_The Zeta tube falls silent as it powers down, the enormous hall―just as dusty as that of the Titan's tower, but thankfully far less dirty―feels eerily quiet in the hush that comes after._

_Space, stars and the cosmos are visible through the triangular window on the far side, the upside down 'V' shape spanning the length from ceiling to floor. It's mildly disconcerting for Pru, who very much prefers to have her feet on land at all times. The stars blink back at her prettily, white and cold in appearance, so distantly far off._

_Maybe it is the discontent of her stomach, or perhaps even the perturbation of viewing the galaxy through a window like a zoo exhibit, but whatever is the cause, the effect is that Prudence initially neglects to notice the new person suddenly standing before them._

_The man, well over a head and a half taller than her, appears freakishly fictional by nature. All over his body, metal and wiring appears attached. Partly, the armoured man reminds Pru of a lone watchman, guarding the tower all on his own. She supposes, after a moment more thought, that this is precisely what he is. A guard, a sentry, the last defender of a place once so sacred to human-kind._

_The watchman's gaze meets each of theirs warily, his stare shifting slowly between each of them. In it, there's a degree of disbelief, but then, his eyes eventually settle on the man clad in cloak and cowl, who has pushed his way to the front of the group_

“ _Batman?” questions the robotic man in a curiously hoarse voice. It sounds far more human than the man appears, not processed at all. It is entirely unlike her own, raspy, nasal tone._

_One piercing brown eye and another more unnerving red one turn on the group again, but there is more weight in his gaze the second time around._

_The room garners a swift hush from at least three out of the five members._

_Robin, on the other hand, seems to have lost all self-preservation along with his lake load of regrets and earlier pangs of conscience. The boy simply marches right up to the tin-man, much to the entire room's surprise._

_A skinny finger forcefully plants itself between the two halves of the metallic breastplate, the robotic man suddenly not seeming to know what to do, simply standing rooted to the spot and looking entirely surprised by this new event._

_A hiss escapes Damian, a rather frightening sound for a kid. Pru has to give it to him. He is bold, if nothing else, the demand impressively impetuous as it flies off his tongue with an air of imperiousness, each word punctuated._

“ _You,” he snarls challengingly, fiery heat and the promise of something deadly in Damian's voice. “You are going to help us rescue my_ brother.”

* * *

The chamber they step into houses the Zeta tube and seemingly nothing else. Entirely made of metal, it looks like an enormous safe, something one might find in a bank rather than a consulate or embassy. There are no windows, a single door, thick in appearance, and their shoes make small but resounding noises on the floor.

The humidity in the room hits Tim in the face first, like a sopping wet rag pulled over his features. The soupy air is overly oppressive and sticky, each drawn breath like inhaling half a reservoir, suffocating his airway.

Somewhat sluggishly, Garfield raises a hand to his brow, mopping away the invisible sweat beneath his hairline. “ _Phew_ ,” the teen exclaims, though there's a smile betwixt his lips, a flashing of white teeth. _“Stifling_ in here.”

Conner, already looking rather put out by the sticky heat, answers, though with nothing more than the slightest acknowledging incline of his head. The brown leather jacket, so admired by all three of them in the cool, dry air of The Watchtower, is swiftly removed, leaving solely the plain white T-shirt that doesn't quite obscure the glaring red “S” of his uniform beneath it.

Tim passes the both of them without a word, making toward the obvious exit―a large, metal door, sealed by a panel with a keypad as well as a thumb scan. Gingerly, he pulls off a glove and, after wiping his clammy hand down the side of his leg, sucks in a silent and nervous breath. Anxiously, and with the sweat already starting to bead up on his thumb again, he presses his finger to the scanner and baitedly awaits recognition.

With the smallest click, the door unlocks and Tim's shoulders sag with relief. It strikes him once again: the knowledge that _his counterpart's biocode was never removed from the JLA's nor the Titan's systems._ It seems it never was something Batman could ever bring himself to do―and frankly, right now he is eternally grateful for the sentiment. Finally, he relaxes and grabs ahold of the bulky, metal door-handle with his still-gloved hand.

The three of them are met with a wash of cool air as they greet the new room―a long, thin corridor with a shiny, polished marble interior. The carpet they tiptoe out onto in single file, is navy and speckled intermittently with equally spaced maroon red polka dots. Along the wall, further narrowing the hall, modern metal furnishings are situated between each set of double doors, somewhat discordant with the opulent columns and eggshell blue wallpaper that harkens back to a different century. Down one end of the passage the narrow way opens up into a spacious lobby, the lights quite low, but most definitely on. The décor, just as impersonal as the uncomfortable and straight-backed business arm-chairs interspersed along the corridor, evokes memories of the similarly steel and black conference chairs at Wayne Enterprises―serving to remind Tim of Tam Fox.

For a moment, his breathing catches tightly in his throat, the oxygen suddenly heavy in his chest as the memory of the woman cleaves at his heart painfully. It takes a minute, but eventually Tim manages to force an exhale, evening out his breathing before Conner can anxiously ask the issue. In leaving his own universe, he had known he would be leaving behind more than just his adoptive father, he had known he would be leaving behind his _life_ there, but he just hadn't expected to miss it all quite so much; _he had miscalculated,_ there were still people there he cared for, they just hadn't been enough to make him stay.

Tim feels caught off guard by the rush of emotion and the tense, twisting sensation of his stomach, but pushing it all away is something he's used to doing by now. It's a habit now, an instinct. _Shove it down now before it becomes too painful._

The foyer, high-ceilinged and open, is reverberant enough to make out the faint sound of keyboard clicks and in the low light he is just able to see the silhouette of a woman with dark, coiffed hair, slicked back into place with professional precision and with not a strand out of place. It's too early for the embassy to be open, but either the woman is on the tail end of a graveyard shift or else she has come in early to unlock and open the consulate for the red-eye office workers.

“Dammit,” he swears with perfunctory resignation under his breath, turning back toward the pair with a small, cursory sigh. “Receptionist, three o'clock.”

Conner makes a face, disappointment and slight irritation as he glares at the wall, as though if he tries hard enough, the action will allow him to see through it―though Superboy isn't equipped with the same set of skills as his DNA donorand thus the attempt is futile.

Meanwhile, Garfield offers up a suggestion. “Back door?”

Turning once again to peer around the eggshell wallpaper, Tim glances in the opposite direction, espying nothing other than a series of winding corridors, no doubt a maze to the unfamiliar.

Rotating back, he shakes his head fleetingly. “Not that I can see,” he replies just above a whisper, relaying his last thought along with it. “Just lots of winding corridors.”

“There's a breeze,” says Conner then, out of nowhere, turning his face to the aforementioned zephyr like a dog to the howling wind. The half-kryptonian shifts his weight onto his left foot, poised and ready to move―and the action draws something out of all three of them, a determination and resolve.

“This way,” Conner murmurs, bringing up a finger to his lips in a hushing movement while pointing leftwards with his free hand. “And stay silent.”

With that, Superboy rolls his shoulders unthinkingly and cricks his neck to the left before giving a nod, while Beast Boy gracefully glides into the body of a panther―green shades all over, with giant paws making no noise against the soft carpet. Tim follows up last, covering their six, hand hovering over his hidden bo-staff as they move.

It's still appallingly early outside, he observes, the trio slipping away down along the next corridor while the woman at the front desk continues to remain so engrossed in her task that she doesn't even notice their leaving.

Through the large, double casement windows of the embassy, Tim can make out the first few rays of dawn, glancing off any metal object that will catch it. Though it is difficult to make out movement in the shadows, he spots a few people about on the road below, most of them on motorcycles and travelling swiftly, without the busy street traffic hazards that will undoubtedly come as the sun rises higher.

Conner leads them through the maze of corridors sure-footedly, not the slightest hint of hesitation in his steps until they reach a heavy, locked door at the end of a particularly long corridor.

Tim scoots upfront, already reaching for the lock-picking set he knows is in his utility belt. They trade positions, Conner on lookout while Tim fiddles with the lock, Garfield shifting again―this time into a ferret―and easily climbing his way up Tim's leg. The green animal burrows into the hood of the Robin uniform, which is buried under the layer of civilian clothing over-top, and nestles there to wait; a green animal spotted in India would give away their location to anyone who might be looking, which Garfield undoubtedly knows.

The lock unlatches, undoing with a definite albeit dull _ka-chink_ before Tim draws himself to his feet once more, motioning at Conner to follow.

All three of them slip out onto the street without a problem, the smell of heavy humidity and early risers with their cigarettes lingering on the thick air. The dawn has not yet hit ground level, but despite this the buildings radiate heat and the breeze is a touch too warm to be comfortable.

There are only a few people out and about at this hour, mostly, it appears from the various and overburdened vehicles, those on their way to market or awake early to set up their vending carts and stalls at the best locations. Few of those that pass by give them even a casual glance.

“We need to find ourselves a way to get to the station,” says Tim, lowly, returning his glove to his hand, despite the sticky, sweating feeling of his palms that cause the leather to protest. “Bus, train, motorcycles, anything. I don't care if we have to steal a whole plane, we need something that's going to get us there faster than just going by foot.”

“What about that?” asks Garfield near immediately, crawling up to his ear and sticking his ferret nose by Tim's cheek.

Tim twists, turning to follow the green mammal's eye-line.

It's a truck, a load of watermelons in the back. It appears to have been on its way into the city, but the driver, it seems, has pulled over in order to duck inside a convenience store.

“I think I can jump-start that,” Garfield says, nodding to himself.

Conner, with quick and eager tone, and a flash of excitement in his eyes, follows up: “And I can drive stick shift.”

Tim nods, but doesn't wait to acknowledge anymore. Hastily, he crosses the road, dashing diagonally at a brisk pace and avoiding the deep pot-hole in the middle, Garfield on his shoulder and Conner on his heels.

The penknife he retrieves to jimmy the lock of the passenger-side door is entirely unnecessary given that they quickly discover the door-lock to be broken.

After Conner gets in, Tim simply slides up next to him, Garfield leaping over the both of them and onto the driver's seat mid-transformation, going straight for the wiring below the wheel.

It isn't much of an effort to start the vehicle. Garfield shoots them a thumbs up and a grin as he switches places with Conner in the center seat. The engine idles without fault and Tim feels Conner jerk the truck into first, feeling the gears stick just a little as the vehicle lurches forward. Finally, they pull away from the curb, the watermelons in the back rolling a little as the vehicle veers onto the main road.

They're well on their way before the owner of the truck realises what has happened, already out of view of the little convenience store. Tim does feel a little bad about taking the man's truck, but it is for a good cause―the cause of rescuing Wondergirl from the clutches of an evil maniac.

They ditch the truck upon reaching the train station and the three of them surreptitiously board the Samjhauta Express, a journey that takes them almost twelve hours. Without yet having to worry about the gazes of Ra's and his assassins, the three of them sleep, albeit lightly, the rattling of the rails lulling Tim into a doze for several hours. For a time, he and Conner chat lightly, Garfield curled up on his lap in the shape of a house cat, purring softly as he sleeps.

The train arrives at Lahore at dusk, where the three of them once again depart, alighting from one train and soon onto another. It's second four hour train ride from Lahore to Islamabad, but rested from their journey, they agree not to stop.

Tim finds a man willing to give them a ride on the back of his wagon and the three Titan's take up his offer with thanks, climbing into the back of the truck with several hay bales.

They carry on into the night, walking after the kind man will take them no further. They reach town after township, making their way further into the mountains. They eventually take rest on the flat rooftop of a sturdy looking house, staring up at the twinkling lights of the stars, scattered across the navy blue backdrop of the night sky.

It is colder in the mountains. The sticky heat that had suffocated them that morning has no presence here in the cool evening air. The clothes that had earlier been their bane now their boon, keeping them warm against the slight chill.

For Tim, it feels extraordinarily strange to be returning to a place once so hastily departed. Unlike the League of Assassin's in his own world, the base of Ra's al Ghul in this universe is utterly untouched by his destructive hand.

In this world, Bruce was never lost in time. In this world, Tim never went looking for him. In this world, he never ran into Pru. In this world, the Council of Spiders did not hunt him down, nor any of the assassin's under Ra's.

“Whatcha thinkin' about?” Conner asks in the tired, southern drawl that only really comes out when he's exhausted. The words are objectively soft, but seem louder in the peaceable tranquillity of the evening. It interrupts Tim's slow descend into a depressing reverie.

With Garfield snoring lightly on his left, Tim has no doubt as to whom the question is for. Slowly, he turns his neck to the right and allows his hair to fall into his eyes as his head lolls, neck loose but muscles sore.

Against the slight light pollution provided by the city, he can make out Conner's shape―his palms behind his head and his elbows spread eagle wide, knees drawn up with one ankle folded over his thigh.

Tim draws his gaze back to the constellations above him, ironically, seeking out Cassiopeia by accident. _Hoping Cassie is alright does nothing for his nerves, but he prays for it anyway._

“Not much,” he says with a shrug aborted mid-way through, linking his own fingers across the breastplate of the Robin suit. The rest there heavily on the bullet-proof armour. “Just about the League, you know. What we're likely to be walking into.”

Conner shifts, turning onto his side. He pins Tim with a serious glare and a pair of thin, worried lips. “What _are_ we walking into?” he asks at a murmur, careful not to speak so loudly as to wake Garfield.

Tim doesn't look over, instead continuing to trace the visible constellations with his gaze.

“I don't really know,” he answers truthfully, biting his bottom lip at the admission. A sliver of skin pulls off and Tim can taste the metallic tang of iron. He licks it away with a flick of his tongue before continuing.

“The League of Assassin's is bound to be different here,” he starts, each word low, drawn. “So much of this world is just… it's just _different._ Not different enough to be able to point to it and identify it, but enough that I can tell it's _there.”_

Conner with quick, intelligent eyes, watches him carefully, but his body seems to relax at the admission. Although, Tim isn't sure why.

“What was it like,” he asks, sniffing against the breeze. “What was the League of Assassin's like in _your_ world?”

It's all so much a blur that Tim barely remembers snatches of it. However, certain parts are so crystal clear it's as though they barely happened yesterday.

“Big,” he begins, recalling the moment he woke up inside the cavernous room, Ra's hovering over him with that inordinately pleased and somewhat psychotic grin he wore whenever his carefully curated plans came to fruition. “Big. There were a lot of assassins there when I first woke up.”

“Woke up?” Conner questions curiously, unpicking the threads as they are handed over to him.

Tim nods. “I didn't have any plans to go to the base,” he says then, unconsciously folding his hands over the abdominal scar Conner cannot see. “But I was… badly wounded.”

Superboy's eyes narrow charily. _“How_ badly wounded?” he interrogates, raking Tim's face over for any signs of a lie.

Glancing rightwards, Tim spares him a soft, knowing smile, amused by nature, but understanding above all. “You too, huh?” he asks, then lets the question drop as Conner's face morphs with confusion. “Never mind. It, uh, it was pretty bad. Life threatening, actually.”

At that, the half-kryptonian tries to hide his viscerally shocked reaction, but it's too little too late and they both know it. The boy baulks and pales at the thought.

“What happened?” he asks, sounding substantially hesitant in his want to know, voice cracking mid-way through.

Tim grimaces. “Run through,” he says, keeping his voice as even as he is able. “With a sword.”

This time, Conner doesn't even bother to hide his shock and his horror. A garbled, half-cut and strangled noise comes out of his mouth.

“With a _sword?!”_ he exclaims, sounding breathless.

Tim shrugs, but it is a full, genuine movement this time, despite his lying on a roof. “Not the first time that's happened,” he admits. “But yeah. Lost my spleen―had to be removed, emergency operation. That's how I ended up with the League in the first place. Ra's thought I could be useful to him. I guess I was, for a time.”

Conner makes another aborted noise, this one with a slightly hysterical edge. Choked and pained wheezes and whines effuse into the chilly night.

“You have no _spleen?”_ he splutters finally, wrestling his voice back under control.

“It wasn't the best part of the experience,” Tim jokes, making an attempt at lightening the dense and heavy seriousness that has settled over them. “But it certainly wasn't the worst.”

Conner sounds like he has been garrotted, an entire airway cut off. “What could possibly be _worse_ than losing your _spleen?”_ he rasps, barely above a croak.

“Well,” says Tim. “I did almost blow up the base with me inside it.”

Conner blinks once, then simply stares at Tim as though he's grown a second head.

“You,” he starts, then stops, his voice halting and jerky with every word. “You blew up the base?”

Tim nods. “Yup,” he says, popping the 'p'. “Pretty sure Ra's lived, weedy bastard always does find a way out.”

The other teen's eyes flutter closed and he rolls over again, flopping onto his back with a sigh. Superboy's body is spread wide, like he's making snow angels, aside from the forefinger and thumb brought up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I don't think you're all that different,” he mutters, though loud enough that Tim has no doubt the intention was for him to hear it. “ _My_ Tim and you. I don't think you're all that different. You both have such reckless abandon for life. _Blowing shit_ _up_ _without thought for your own safety._ ”

Pursing his lips, Tim whistles out an exhalation through his nose.

“Maybe,” he admits, feeling slightly raw around the edges and just a little bit guilty. “But I'll be the first to admit I wasn't doing so great around that time. I probably hit the ground harder than I should have, pushed myself more than was needed. After Bruce came back, things got better for a while.”

“For a _while,”_ repeats Conner back to him, still as a stone and entirely unmoved from where he is still holding his nose with his eyes closed like it would very much pain him to look at anything, let alone Tim right now. “And how long did that last, exactly?”

Tim winces at the harsher edge to the other teen's tone.

“Nine months,” he admits quietly, finding Orion in the night canvas this time. “Or something like that.”

With a sigh, heavy and like there is an oppressive weight on his chest that is pinning him to the roof, Conner finally releases a long breath. “Geez, Tim,” he ejects, guttural from exhaustion. “You're falling apart. You're like Humpty Dumpty and you don't even know it and one day, _one day_ you're going to be in so many pieces you'll have no idea how to put yourself back together again.”

_It's not that bad,_ he thinks, then vocalises that thought out loud.

Conner suddenly looks like he wants to bang his head against a brick wall several times, but instead, the super powered teen merely sighs once more.

“Just promise me,” he begins laboriously, “that you won't recklessly rush into anything once we arrive at the base, that you won't throw yourself in harms way just to play the untouchable, foolish hero. You're not invincible, Tim, I know that better than anyone.”

While Tim isn't sure he can keep such a promise, he nods along anyway, if only to ease the ache and the worry in Conner's gaze, now pinned on him once more.

“We can't lose you again,” he continues, looking a little lost and as though caught in the memory of a time long past. “It hurt too much the first time.”

To that, he simply smiles. _It hurt too much the first time…_

The note in his pocket, heavy with all the words Victor didn't get a chance to say in person, weighs him down like concrete. Just as so many words before have been intended for another Tim, a _different_ Tim, he knows these words are not for him either.

Nonetheless, he pulls out the crumpled piece of paper and begins to read. _Dear Tim…_ it begins, and he swallows back the lump in his throat. The words might not be for him, but does it really hurt all that much to pretend?

Besides, this is what he signed up for, isn't it?

He's well-versed in being a replacement.

* * *

The next day's journey sees them climb ever higher into the mountains, trekking upwards into the thinner atmosphere, the oppressive heat of the city dissipating at the higher elevation, to be replaced with the piercingly cold gusts that whip and strike them periodically.

They catch an overburdened bus until its end destination by a roadside lookout, the sprawling city at the base of the ridge just barely visible through the heat and the haze. Next, they take a barely visible mountain trail that cuts over the horn with an almost vertical incline of precarious, wooden steps. The three Titan's pass a lodge halfway up the summit, a rest-stop for travellers local or otherwise, but they do not break. They push on until they pass the pinnacle and begin a slow, perilous decent to the other side. After reaching a road mid-way down the other side of the jebel, they hitch a ride on another truck, this one bound much further up the mountain and carrying a load of firewood intended for kindling as well as several bales of hay.

Conner ends up going to sleep, citing a combination of a headache, a bad nights sleep, plus the smell of hay being too homely for him to resist. The implication of this pricks at something in Tim's heart.

“Still with the headaches?” he asks, concerned, to which Conner simply nods.

Immediately looking as though he regrets such an action, he adds, “I think they might be getting worse.”

While Conner sleeps, Tim notices that Garfield is quiet and rather melancholic. In the back of the truck he sits, braiding strands of hay together to pass the time.

“It's funny, you know?” the green teen says after a long while, soft, as though speaking absent thoughts thanks to the calm and peace of the countryside that passes them by. They've travelled several miles up the mountain pass already and Superboy's soft snoring can be heard from up the front. Having already made some kind of crown or halo with the hay, Garfield seems to be partway through beginning another. “For a long time… I really just. I didn't expect I would ever see the Titan's together again. But here we are,” Garfield gives a little shrug before continuing, “the three of us. A weird little mission to rescue Cassie. It just… it makes me wonder where the others are, you know? Bumblebee, Batgirl, Starfire, R–Raven. The rest of… of our friends.”

Tim does not miss the slight hesitancy, the waver in Garfield's voice as he voices Raven's name.

“You miss her, don't you?” he deduces, deliberately staring out the back of the truck and avoiding eye-contact, while Beast Boy focuses more intently on the hay between his fingers. “Rachel.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees the other teen nod. “Yeah…” he admits. “I mean, I don't even know where she _is!”_ Then, like a bolt of lightning has stricken him straight down the middle, Garfield lurches to a full-body freeze.

“Wait,” he begins with single, rapid blink, turning his intently focused gaze from the hay crown onto Tim. The boy takes a minute to think, but it seems all for naught when he blurts, “were we… _Rachel_ and I… what were we? In _your_ universe, I mean.”

Scratching at the cuticle of his thumbnail, Tim gives a half-hearted shrug. “I don't know,” he readily admits. “I'm not even sure _you_ knew.”

At the admission, Garfield deflates some. “That would be right,” he mumbles, disappointed. “She'd never…”

Tim's lips, twisted with sympathy, part slightly. “There wasn't _nothing_ there,” he avers. “It's just that… I don't think the two of you knew how to take that first step.”

Garfield laughs then, but it's a harsh, embittered sound.

“What are you saying?” he finally asks. “That neither of us worked up the courage to confess?”

For the second time, Tim shrugs. “I suppose I am,” he agrees.

With a sigh, the acerbic demeanour and biting tone seems to rush out of Garfield all at once, leaving him punctured and subdued.

“Guess I can't talk,” he says then, after at least a minute's silence. “I never got the chance to say anything to her either.”

With a condoling smile, Tim seizes the other boy's ankle lightly. “That's alright,” he commiserates, Garfield staring down at the hay crown between his hands. “Maybe someday, you will.”

They spend a total of nine hours journeying to the base of the League that day, all the while keeping out an eye for any potential assassins that may be tracking or observing them. Tim doesn't think he sees any. After all, in this universe, Ra's al Ghul isn't expecting an attack from a Robin believed to be long expired, but he watches the rocky outcrops and the motorists on the roadways as they pass regardless.

It's well after mid-day by the time they crest their final mountaintop and are met by the sight of the intimidating compound with all the glory and grandeur that no longer exists in Tim's native universe. A place he once called _home_ for three months.

“There it is,” he says, the wind whipping and tearing at his clothing, the biting chill of the alpine air nipping at his skin and thrashing about his hair. Garfield and Conner reach the peak at the same time, pausing on either side of him to take in the view of the magnificent, but terrifying compound they hope to find Cassie in. At such altitude, there is little in the way of plants, barely a couple of small, pallid looking shrubs that cling to the rocky soil. About them, fine mist swirls, the clouds enshrouding the instillation from satellite spies and lost travellers.

“It's built into a mountain!” exclaims Garfield with a wild gesticulation, glancing wide-eyed at Tim and then at Conner in turn.

The face of the fortress does appear to melt into the rock, although Tim knows that most of the compound is actually underground and inside the next mountain over. It is like an iceberg, bigger in the parts invisible to the naked eye, only the very tip reaching the surface.

“No time to waste,” Conner returns with grim determination, already beginning his descent down the last hill, stripping off his civilian clothes as he goes, revealing the familiar suit beneath. “Let's go.”

Though he has no doubt Garfield is just as exhausted as he, Tim finds himself feeling the same buzzing energy he gets from four straight energy drinks after an all-night patrol with an important business meeting at W.E. the next _day._ _H_ _e's ready to find Cassie and get out of here, they're so close, they can't stop now._ His fingers twitch lightly by the sides of his thighs, then he too yanks off his shirt and starts stripping down to his bullet-proof armour.

Beast Boy exchanges one last dubious glance with him before following suit, then chasing after Superboy down the hill, little stones sliding under their feet as they drop into the dish-like crater below. Tim follows after them wordlessly once he double-checks his bo-staff to be secure, silently hoping their infiltration goes without a hitch, but quietly planning for the worst. Because when was the last time a plan went smoothly? With Ra's in the mix, it is likely to be twice as complicated.

Garfield is the first to find a viable entrance, a small, heavy door made of metal beside bay doors that look like they lead to some sort of hangar. Fortunately, the door has an electronic keypad, which means it can be hacked.

Superboy and Beast Boy once again find themselves on look out duty while Tim works on convincing the door to grant them access without setting off any alarms, which it eventually does, much to their delight.

There's another door across the other side of the expansive room, the hangar thankfully empty of people as Conner pulls the door behind them closed with as soft of a _clank_ as he can manage. Garfield takes the lead, transforming into some kind of green bird of paradise and flying high above the stationary planes, simultaneously playing sentry and leading Superboy and Robin across the room, into the safety of shadows once more.

The next door is easier. There's no need for Tim to hack this one, seemingly embedded in the rock face. It opens without a sound.

_It all feels too easy,_ mutters the cynical voice in the back of his brain, the one that knows the Ra's in his own universe would never let him make it even this far. The one that Tim has versed in wits alone and come out alive on the other side.

“I've got a bad feeling,” he says quietly, vocalising the thought aloud for the other two to hear as they step into a long corridor, one side made of smooth, grey metal, and the other composed of sedimentary rock that jaggedly runs its length. “Something just doesn't quite _feel_ right.”

Garfield glances over with an expression of agitation, though Conner doesn't look any more or less perturbed than previously.

“Don't worry, Robin,” he mutters, reaching for Tim's arm to squeeze reassurance there. “If anything happens, we'll protect you.”

It's assurance that he thinks is more for Conner himself than for Tim, but Garfield nods along eagerly and it strikes him that neither of them are going to let him throw himself into any fray without a fight― _they lost one Robin and it devastated them both, they're not about to lose a second._ Tim doesn't think anything he could say would reassure them that he's not planning on dying today.

Slipping down the hallway, their feet barely making any noise on the metal walkway, they arrive at a three-way junction with a door on one side. The hallways feel familiar. Tim almost believes he could claim to know this exact corridor―the very same one he and Tam fled down in another world, another life. It feels odd to be standing here again. The layout of the base seems exactly the same, not a detail changed, not a door out of place.

“This way,” he directs the two other teen's, pushing past and leading the way, taking the right turning corridor. The near identical looks of surprise on Beast Boy and Superboy's faces are not something he misses, but the latter schools it better.

They make it halfway down the hall before Tim decides he can no longer stand the stare boring into the back of his head.

“I stayed here,” he sighs wearily, taking each twist and turn of the compound as it comes, taking them deeper into its heart. He twists his neck, glancing over his shoulder at Garfield. “After I had my spleen removed, I stayed. For three months.”

Conner, with whom he has already had this conversation, looks unfazed, but Garfield seems stuck on the knowledge that Tim doesn't have a spleen, eventually managing a quiet curse. “You stayed here?” he asks, dubiously shooting glares between Tim and the surrounding hallway. “With _The League?_ With murderers?”

Under the stare, holding no small amount of surprise and a tiny amount of disappointment that Tim feels as though he should wilt under, he shrugs, emanating a mien of nonchalance although not really feeling it.

“I'm not proud of it,” he admits, casting his revere back into the days of uncertainty, constantly having to watch his own back and plot his own escape and know with absolute truth that if he didn't get himself out of the situation, nobody would be coming for him. “But I had no other choice. As much as I am loath to admit it, Ra's saved my life. I'm under no illusion that he did so for anyone else's benefits but his own, but he did it nonetheless. After I had my spleen removed I needed to recover, he allowed me to stay and in turn I helped him track the rouge assassins known as the Council of Spiders, a group that had turned on their own kind and begun playing assassins at their own game.”

Garfield's lips mash together, pressed so tightly they form a pale line, his jaw tightly wound and his face unnaturally still. It takes the other boy a minute to form words.

“You're so different,” he whispers, to which Tim's heart skips a beat at the same time his feet do, just managing to catch himself before either of them behind him notice. “You're so different to our Tim, but yet, you're _not._ You're the same in all the ways that matter, you've just…” he trails off, gazing absently at the floor.

Conner pats his shoulder once. “Just lived longer,” he supplies.

Tim, suddenly rigidly stiff in every muscle, doesn't know what to say to that, so he just says nothing, pressing onward without a word.

Finally, after several more corridors of silence and completely―and strangely―devoid of any signs of assassins, they finally reach the depths of the compound, a mere door standing between them and the Lazarus Pit. It is at the dead end of a hallway with only one way in and one way out. It is like every other they passed on their way here. Had Tim not known his way around the compound, there would have been every likelihood of them missing it. But Tim _did,_ and they hadn't.

If Cassie is anywhere, Tim has no doubt it will be here. Ra's likes to keep his precious things together. Cassie would have made an excellent bargaining chip against Wonder Woman, but as with the rest of the Justice League, he's heard no mention of her since he arrived. Tim doesn't really know what that means, or what to think about it. He can only presume she's gone back to Themyscira, leaving Cassie behind, but that is entirely speculation on his part. The truth, he is sure, is much more complicated, but his heart goes out to Cassie anyway. _Tim knows what it feels like to be left behind._

“Are you ready?” he asks Conner and Garfield, who brace themselves as Tim places his left palm flat against the metal door and reaches around for the bo-staff strapped to his back with the right.

After receiving simultaneous nods back from the pair, Tim grips the handle, an enormous metal bar, and shoves with all his weight behind him.

The door wrenches open with the grating sound of creaky metal, but, unlike what Tim is expecting, the cavern with the Lazarus pit is empty too.

Cautiously, they make their way inside, Garfield looking up at the cave they now stand in, lights dangling on long wires from the ceiling, Conner looking down, possibly searching for footprints in the dusty floor. Tim's eyes immediately seek out the pit, green and bubbling like a deadly spa bath, and a shudder runs down his spine.

Notably, however, there is no sign of Cassie.

“She's not here,” Tim concludes, confounded by it. He had been so _sure…_

Conner glances over, just as confused, if not more so. “Now what?” he asks, out of ideas. “She could be _anywhere.”_

“I know,” replies Tim gloomily, gripping his bo-staff tight with both hands if only to give them something to do. “I know. I thought… _I thought she would be here.”_

“But she's not,” Garfield chirps, sadly, looking equal parts dismayed to equal parts frustrated. “So now where do we start looking?”

None of them are expecting the only metal door in the room to slam shut with such force as to make the cave rattle and dust to fall from the ceiling. The frightening noise makes Tim jump and the Lazarus pit, like a living entity, hisses and spits its bubbling green poison aggressively.

A short bark of deranged laughter comes out of the shadows, immediately setting Tim on edge. This time, the tightening of the grip on his bo-staff is for good reason.

A figure emerges, but, instinctively, he already knows who it is.

“A Robin brought back to life?” says the silky smooth voice of Ra's al Ghul, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Well, I suppose you're not the first.”

“Ra's,” declares Tim dryly, wrangling his surprise.

The man inclines his head.

“A very good effort, little detective,” he replies, a thoughtful expression on his features, one that Tim very much does _not_ like. “Credit where credit is due, you had me quite fooled―I genuinely believed the Justice League's drivel about their parting, about Batman's abandonment of his cause over a certain Robin's death. Having the Batman look away from my plans for so many years really was _oh-so-helpful,_ although it does, in part, make me wonder what you got from it, unless―”

“Enough of the trite, you overgrown snake,” Garfield interrupts, hissing like a feral cat, skin rippling with the overwhelming want to shift into something powerful and strong, something that could crush Ra's like a twig. “You have our friend, _don't deny it._ We want her back and we want her back _now."_

Ra's passes a lazy eye over Garfield and sneers.

“So impatient,” he drawls. “Your impertinence will get nothing from me. Especially since you walked into _my_ compound, unawares, it seems, that every assassin in this facility will never let you leave here alive unless _I_ give the order.”

His lazy gaze drifts back over to Tim once more.

“You forget,” he says, sneer deepening. “Just who holds all the cards here.”

Minutely, Tim gives a tiny shake of his head. “I haven't forgotten,” he says, unmoved and stock still.

The admission has Ra's appraising him once more. Tim tries to ignore the second shudder that runs down the length of his spine as he is assessed like a slab of meat on a chopping block.

“Well,” Ra's drones, his tongue lightly flicking away the 'L'. “As it is, I _do_ in fact have your friend.”

Garfield's expression turns righteously smug, while out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees Conner's face harden.

“She's been rather… _helpful_ these last few months,” Ra's continues, snapping his fingers once, a command. Tim's stomach bottoms out so far that he's sure he would have lost his lunch if there'd been anything but bile in it.

Cassie comes forth out of the same shadows as Ra's had previously

Wondergirl's beautiful, long blonde hair falls in tumultuous ringlets over her shoulders, cascading over her bare arms. She wears a black shirt, a turtle-neck, though without arms―in many ways similar to her hero uniform, but there is a distinct lack of gold about the edges.

There are no traces of recognition in her eyes when her gaze finally falls flat upon them, staring as though she is seeing straight through them. There is nothing there, nothing of the girl she once was.

“I think,” Ra's says as the horror slowly begins to sink in, the realisation that Ra's has _done_ something to Cassie, mutilated her mind in some way. “That she will be rather helpful now.”

It takes only a second snap of Ra's fingers to send Wondergirl leaping forward, snarling like a rabid animal as she makes a beeline for Conner. He locks her in hand to hand combat, sliding back a little in the fine dirt of the cave as she makes contact hard enough to shatter all the bones in Tim's shoulder.

Suddenly, above them and around them, hundreds of masked faces appear. Along the shadows, in the crooks and crevices of the room; Tim suddenly knows where the assassins have all been hiding.

_There's no way they can beat them all._

Beast Boy charges for the Demon Head, but is caught long before he could ever hope to reach him. Tim fronts some effort, but he already knows they've lost. He has played this game before, he knows how it goes. The one advantage he has is that _this_ Ra's doesn't. _This_ Ra's al Ghul has never versed _him._

It's the single driving force in the idea that maybe he shouldn't hit too hard, put up too much of a fight, expend more energy than necessary―he's going to need every trick in his book to escape this situation, but that just means not giving away too much now.

The amount of time before the three of them are overwhelmed is pitifully short. Garfield goes first, assassin's subduing him just before they manage to pin Tim to the ground, his arms and legs completely immobilised by the hundreds of hands holding him down. Though he cannot see it, across the room he can hear Cassie's frustrated cries and Conner's desperate, unyielding grunts as he tries so very hard not to hurt her.

In the end, it's a lost cause anyway.

With a languorous and purposefully enervated gait, Ra's strides over to him with his hands clasped behind his back and his trademark green and grey robes billowing out behind him. The sneer, perpetually worn, as though it were printed onto his features, deepens only once he is hovering above Tim, staring down at him with a gaze that quite frankly scares him a little. The rogue bends down a brief moment, but only long enough for him to retrieve the utility belt around Tim's waist.

With a frown, knobbly, but deft fingers pry open each pocket individually until the man finds what he is looking for, fingers closing around it as a manic and unnerving grin slides across his features.

Clutched between his fingers and palm is a little tin.

_Oh no._

The colour and blood drains out of Tim's face at a rather violent pace, he feels it recede, a faintness that leaves him feeling horribly disconnected and numb in his extremities.

Questions fly through his mind, each more incomprehensible than the last. _How had Ra's known…_ _How_ could _he have known_ _―_ no. Of course he had known. Just because Ra's didn't know him and therefore could not deduce or predict his actions, Ra's had known _a_ Tim; and while Tim had known the two of them were similar, he just had not known _how_ similar. Ra's predicted not _his_ movements, but the movements of a dead Robin―it just so happened that they were, in fact, far more familiar than Tim could have anticipated.

_Everyone implied or gave off the impression that his counterpart had been this happy-go-lucky kid, always smiling, always with a plan, ready to sacrifice himself in a heart-beat for others―_ but then, had he really been so different? There was but one, singular difference between them: _this_ universe's Timothy Drake had been _loved_ and it had lead him to his death.

There's something debilitatingly knowing in the Demon Head's expression, as though the Wisenheimer rogue can see right through him. _Something which makes_ this _Ra's somehow even more dangerous and deadly than his own universe's version of the man._

“It seems,” says Ra's, still grinning broadly, looking more pleased than ever as he stares down at Tim with Lazarus tinted eyes. It's like the man is reading every thought that crosses his mind, though Robin knows he gives nothing away. He has spent too long in the company of Ra's to give away anything; he does not wear his heart on his sleeve. “You are more intelligent than I thought you ever could be, little bird. Or perhaps your… _'_ _rebirth_ _'_ has amplified the perceptive wisdom I always knew was within you.”

The little lead tin in his hand clicks open with no effort at all, just the lightest press of his thumb. The vibrant, hazardous green light of the small rock inside spills out.

“ _Conner!”_ Tim screams, only to be immediately silenced by an assassin's glove over his mouth. The smell of worn leather makes bitter bile rise in his throat. There's nothing in his stomach, but he wants to throw up anyway.

Superboy glances up with a sharp jerk of his head, his hands still intertwined with Cassie's, neither yielding in their dance of death, but it is only in time for Ra's to pluck the rock out of its container. The man holds it between his forefinger and thumb like precious gemstone and admires it like one admiring a diamond for its beauty.

“I always was _fascinated_ by Kryptonite,” he begins with a curl of his lip. “It's colour, so similar to that of the Lazarus pit. Both so deadly, yet able to bring new life.”

Ra's pauses a moment, then his stride lengthens towards Superboy and Wondergir..

“You can thank Robin over there for bringing this gift along,” he says perversely, accompanied by a wicked chuckle. Then, in a tone slightly higher and with egregious snark, adds: “You know, if I didn't know any better, I would think Robin doesn't believe you to be trustworthy. Of course, I remember our dear, sweet Robin well. And _that_ over there, that isn't him. That is something much more base, more _vile._ ”

The closer to Conner he gets, the paler the meta becomes. It isn't long before Cassie's grip on him is forcing the other teen to his knees, a sickening crunch ringing through the room as they hit the dirt.

“No, that boy over there,” continues Ra's, holding the space rock loftily. “That thing is depraved and dishonourable, corrupt and confused, malignant like a tumour on this world and I have never _seen_ a more perfect specimen of immorality. I have never seen anyone more fit to be my heir. So, I suppose I must thank you, Superboy. For bringing me this mould, this _clay_ of the former Robin beloved by Batman. A Robin so suspicious, so riddled with insecurity, so needing of a place.”

Conner's eyes meet his then, betrayal ringing clear in his voice, the distance between them suddenly nothing at all.

“ _Why, Tim,”_ he rasps, Cassie pressing down on his shoulder with a no doubt painful use of force. _“Why did you have that on you?”_

Yet, with a hand over his mouth, all the words and apologies Tim longs so desperately to say stay locked up.

“So needing of a place,” Ra's repeats, mostly to himself, it seems, before announcing much more loudly to the room: “I will give him a place. I will make this soon-to-be former Robin a bird of prey, I will give him new wings and under my hand the world will finally know the immortal and eternal name of Ra's al Ghul.”

Everything happens in rapid succession, then.

Conner collapses, then falls entirely unconscious as the rock comes too close for him to bare its overwhelming effects any longer.

One side of the compound blasts inwards, sending rock and debris flying, taking out some of the assassins.

Ra's screeches loudly, so loudly in fact that it is the only thing Tim's ears can hear over the sudden ringing in them, caused by the blast.

A nondescript team pours into the room, men who look like they might once have belong to some kind of military group. It momentarily strikes him as odd that they have no unifying or identifying marker, until his brain quickly comes to the realisation that they are hired guns, mercenaries.

A boot collides with his head, an assassin's, he thinks. It's not enough to knock him out, but it's certainly enough to daze him. The arms around him unwind, but his vision is spinning and his legs feel unsteady. Tim simply collapses again, his legs giving out underneath him.

Mercenaries mean _money._ Powerful money, with the right connections.

There's another familiar laugh. It's not Ra's this time. From his awkward position, Tim can see that much at least. The Demon Head is scowling, he looks annoyed by the intrusion. It's not obvious, not to anyone else. To the unfamiliar, Ra's appears about as calm as boat on a still ocean, it is just that Tim has had a lot of practice in reading the man's micro-expressions.

Making a second attempt at hauling himself up, this time when Tim's shaking knees give out from beneath him, his arms are not there to support him; they do not catch him when he falls.

The side of his head goes down hard and fast onto a chunk of rocky rubble that makes contact at _just_ the wrong angle.

Light dissolves into thick darkness.

The rest is no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me cherry pick whatever canon(s) I desire 😌. Next chapter is already done, but half this length, lmao. Enjoy!

_Clenched so tightly so as to make a definite 'L' shape, Batman's jaw looks sharp enough to cut steel. Inside his mouth, grinding harshly together, the horrible noises made by his teeth also sound painful. Right now though, Prudence is quite sure the pain in his mouth is the furthest thing from Bruce Wayne's mind. There's a harrowed expression marring his features, acute distress so plainly clear that it is even making Pru feel uncomfortably upset._

_The mechanical man―Cyborg, she had learned his name was―shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, never meeting the man in the eye unless he has to._

“ _India,” Bruce says flatly, the word dropping off his tongue with a degree of disbelief. “They're in India. They're in India and they're running a Titan's mission to rescue Wondergirl.”_

_If the man could have massaged his temples through the cowl, Pru has no doubt he would already be doing so. Batman looks lost and, if she's being honest, perhaps a little frightened._

_Prudence thinks he is right to be. After all, they had learned from Cyborg that this Wondergirl was in the hands of Ra's al Ghul, her former Master and the man under whom she had trained and honed her skills as an assassin. While it was true that Tim had gone up against the Demon Head before, that did not guarantee him to come out again, unscathed. Every interaction with Ra's was a chance on one's life._

_Nightwing reaches out and claps the man on the shoulder, a gentle reassuring touch. After it isn't immediately shaken off, Dick takes another step closer and brings himself into Bruce's space._

“ _They'll be alright, B,” he says quietly, though the room is so utterly silent that they all hear each word as clear as a tolling bell. “They're together and it isn't like this is Tim's_ first _rodeo with Ra's―”_

“ _And that makes it alright, does it?” Bruce snaps, whirling and shifting his gaze. The cowl has never looked heavier on his head._

_Dick removes his hand, raising them to placate and mollify. “Of course not,” he says evenly, accommodatingly. “I'm just saying that Tim isn't alone and that he has done this before―he's got more experience in this than you think, B.”_

_In turn, Bruce just throws his hands in the air._

“ _More_ experience,” _he spits, choler in his voice. “He shouldn't have_ experience _dealing with Ra's―the man is a maniacal psychopath and Tim is barely_ eighteen. _”_

“ _We all did what we thought was best while you were gone,” Dick retorts back defensively with a flare of heat before managing to steal a deep breath and reel it all back in again. It seems to her that Dick Grayson has a lot of experience stuffing his emotions back into their carefully labelled boxes, but that's something to put away for now and dissect later. “For Tim, he thought working with Ra's was the fastest way to find you. He knows the man.”_

_This is hard for him. There's a weight Nightwing carries with him, one he keeps close to the vest, if only to protect those around him that he loves. Unfortunately, its presence is undeniably clear. He is trying oh-so-hard not to let his hackles rise, as though the blame of this rests solely on his shoulders. Whether it does or doesn't, Pru doesn't truthfully know._

_This, however, does not seem to reassure Bruce._

“ _He knows_ a _man,” Batman counters. “But that doesn't mean he knows_ this _man. Tim doesn't know_ _Ra's al Ghul, not the one in this universe. There is every likelihood that he could be different from the one in our own. If Tim is banking on their similarities…”_

_Jason sighs, stepping forward with his helmet under one arm._

“ _B,” he begins lowly, interrupting the man's thoughts spilled aloud, “we need to contact the others. We need to tell B―the other Batman―that he isn't in Metropolis like we thought. Plus, we still need to get the tubes up and running so as to get them out of there in the first place.”_

_Bruce casts over an exhausted glance, followed by every muscle in his body sagging until he looks entirely as though the energy has drained from him. They all need sleep. Batman most of all. They're running on empty._

_Cyborg interrupts them both. “I was working on it,” he says, looking rightly unnerved by the disconcerting glower Damian is still putting upon him. “The Zeta tubes, I mean. I was rebooting several of them, remotely charging them when you showed up.”_

_Batman says nothing for a moment, the lenses of the cowl simply narrow in that way Pru has started to recognize means he is listening._

“ _Show me,” he orders, finally, when Cyborg offers up nothing else._

_The mechanical man turns and Batman billows close after, the rest of the family quickly following suit. Prudence winds up at the back, as per usual, but this time with Damian in synced step beside her._

_The five of them wind up in a small room with Cyborg, filled from ceiling to floor with computer monitors on one side and a small cot on the other. The man eases himself into an office chair and begins tapping away at the computer keyboard in front of him, pulling up diagnostics for several Zeta tubes, either powered down or charging._

“ _There really isn't a quick way to get to them,” he starts, more screens ballooning. “The closest Zeta tube to the League of Assassin's is the same tube they travelled through, but it's a multi-day journey from the consulate in New Delhi to the base._

_Batman inches forward leaning over his shoulder, looking pensive, but thoughtful, as though there's a card up his sleeve that the rest of them have no knowledge of. As it is Batman, Pru surmises there probably is._

“ _No,” he says, reaching over to tap away at the computer keyboard himself. Cyborg shuffles out the way, allowing the Bat to take up the console seat. “There's a specific tube,” he says, eyes narrowing behind the cowl as he scours the screens, searching for something. After a minute, it seems he finds what he is looking for, one screen blowing up larger than the rest with a Zeta tube that looks no different from the others._

 _Nightwing shuffles closer. “B,” he begins dubiously, giving the man a highly curious look that reads: potentially wondering if he has hit his head somewhere. “That Zeta tube is in the middle of a desert. It's nowhere_ near _the Titans. It's in the middle of Afghanistan.”_

_Bruce does not look at all put-off by the expression on his eldest's face. “I know where it is,” he replies, calmly, swivelling the chair to face the rest of them. “In… our world, there is a bunker there. Underground. A last Justice League resort, if you will. I stocked it myself, nearly two decades ago now. There are at least three stealth planes there, military grade. They're definitely older now; the AX8-J4 Raptor, designed for infiltration missions. Integrated hover-jets, silenced engines―” he pins Dick with a look, “―cup holders, the works.”_

_The corners of Nightwing's lips turn up as he braces himself, widening his stance and folding his arms over his chest. “But they'll still do the job, right?”_

_Batman nods. “If I am correct in assuming this base was similarly created by my counterpart here,” he continues, gaze now passing over each of them in turn, “we can be at the League around the same time the team will arrive. Then, all we have to do is grab Tim and the others and get out again.”_

_Jason looks uncertain and unsure, tension rising in his shoulders. “Helluva plan,” he mumbles under a huff. “And certainly easier said than done.”_

_Bruce's infallible stare shifts to him, resolution in his still hard jaw. “I never said it would be_ easy,” _he returns with a single, simple jerk of his chin. “Only that this is the fastest way to reach them.”_

_Glancing around at the rest of the gathered group, Prudence suddenly spots a noticeable absence. As Batman turns back to Cyborg, no doubt to work through the more intricate complexities of the plan, she departs from the room without fuss._

_It isn't long before Pru tracks Damian Wayne down, finding him in a lounge with a big window on one side that stares straight out at the endless starscape._

_Shifting herself onto the couch beside him, they sit in companionable silence for a time. It is long enough that Prudence briefly wonders if the boy has simply fallen asleep with his eyes open, but eventually, Damian shifts awkwardly on the couch and frowns out at the galaxies and stars._

“ _Do you think it's weird,” he asks softly, voice croaky and rough, filled with the kind of fatigue that does not belong in the tone of someone so young. “Do you think it's weird we are going back there?”_

_The League, she deduces easily, the boy is worried about returning to the League. Pru cannot begrudge him for that. She's anxious too, probably moreso than is healthy._

_At the wording of it though, she snorts. “If you mean am I nervous? Then, yeah. I am.” League Assassin's show no weaknesses or fears, it's a lesson the child has learned all too well, a habit he seems unable to break._

_The littlest Robin's gaze slides over, and she meets it, just the briefest of flicks before it is back out on the stars again. Her candour surprises him, but it's obviously appreciated._

Good, _she thinks._ The boy needs honesty, he needs to know it's okay to be afraid. _Prudence isn't deluding herself into believing she can be a positive influence in Damian's life, god knows her chequered past rules her out of that completely, but if she can give him this one moment, then that's all she needs._

_Reclining back on the lounge chair, she throws her arms behind her head, palms flat behind the base of her skull, and directs her own sight that way too._

“ _Logically, I know it isn't him,” she says, studiously ignoring the boy's startle as her voice pierces the quiet for a second time. “Logically I know it can't be him, it_ can't _be the Master, the Demon Head. Yet, I know, as do you, that if I came face to face with him, my heart would not believe the same as my head does now.”_

_Pru, with a degree of self-satisfaction, feels as though she sounds rather wise. She never was, after all, the greatest with words. Action and reaction always have been and probably always will be much more her style._

_A peaceful quiet settles between them again and it's a long time before the boy breaks it to pose the question too clearly lingering on his mind._

“ _Do you think…” he starts slowly, picking at invisible lint on the lounge. “Do you think Timothy is feeling the same way? Do you think Grandfath―I mean_ Ra's _is having the same effect on him too?”_

_Prudence hears the rest of the Batclan shuffle into the room, but she answers Damian's question nonetheless. It's important to her. Even moreso to the kid._

“ _I think,” she says, after choosing her words carefully. “That right now, the Master is more frightened of Tim than Tim is of him.”_

_It is true, to be sure, but it strikes her of how true only once the words are out of her mouth. She can only imagine the surprise on Ra's face at the sight of a Robin older, harder and wiser. Tim gave him enough trouble as a sprightly little pre-teen, it's almost amusing to imagine what Ra's thinks of him now he's into budding adulthood._

_Batman, shuffles from one foot to the other in the doorway, no doubt a rather unsubtle way of catching her attention, but somehow managing to look just about as imposing as ever as he does so._

_The man clears his throat. “It's time,” he declares, words weighted with seriousness, but also―if Pru isn't mistaken―a new found expression of respect for her. It strikes her oddly, if only because she feels as though it isn't something she deserves. In lieu of expressing this, however, she simply nods in return. They're close now, Tim is close, she can feel it._

“ _Time to go, kid,” she says, standing, sending over a smile meant to be reassuring. With how dubious Damian looks, she's doubtful if it has the intended effect. “And when we find Tim, you can ask him that question yourself.”_

* * *

There's a hole. There's a hole in the ground and Tim is standing over the hole. It's small. Or, it starts small. It's a small hole in the dusty ground and there's nothing discernible inside it, only pitch black darkness. Tim doesn't know what he's supposed to be looking at.

The hole grows wider, it expands.

Horrified, Tim takes a step back, shuffling until the edges of the hole aren't touching the tips of his brown sliders.

It's the brown sliders that do it. That make him look. That turn his eyes to what he is wearing. It's not his Red Robin uniform, like he is expecting. It isn't even his Robin uniform. It's his school uniform. Brentwood Academy Boarding School. The hideous tan shorts, the white almost-knee length socks, the emerald green blazer over an even darker, forest-green sweater. The sleeves are too short. The sleeves were always too short. He out-grew them every time. Before his father could order him a new one.

 _Thin as a rake,_ Jack Drake would always say sternly. _Never not growing, always shooting up._ But Tim had always thought that to be untrue, his height was below average. He had always been on the shorter side in class. Secretly he thought it was simply because his father went away too often and when he came back Tim probably looked unrecognizable; like he thought his son just wouldn't continue to grow while he was away.

The hole widens again and Tim scrambles back in response. He trips over his own feet and his behind lands in the unforgiving dirt.

 _Go home,_ hisses the hole, continuing to expand. _Go back to where you came from._

Trembling and strangely afraid, Tim doesn't reply, but he doesn't have to. The hole glares at him, in as much as a hole can glare.

 _Leave this place,_ says the hole. _You don't belong here._

Opening his mouth, he makes an attempt at a reply, but it is forestalled. The words escape his throat as nothing more than bubbles. Is he drowning? No, he can breathe normally. Tim draws a long breath in just to be sure and exhales it all out again. Next, he takes one more shot at speaking, but once again the words float away, bubbles in a bathtub.

 _This isn't your home,_ continues the hole, the hissing growing more violent and intense. The world around him starts to shake, the ground trembles, the little stones scattered make pitter-pattering noises as they jump up and down. _Go home, you don't belong. Go away, go away, go AWAY!_

Finally, a cough comes up out of his chest, spurting upwards along with the bubbles in his mouth. A half-choked noise comes out with it, followed by a thought he isn't entirely sure he actually vocalizes.

“ _I don't belong there either!”_ he shouts, now irrationally angry at the hole. What does the hole know anyway? It's a hole! “I don't belong. I've never belonged.”

The hole takes no notice of his words.

 _Go away, go away, go away,_ it chants, over and over, repeating endlessly.

Tim kicks a pebble into the hole. Furious. Angry. Wrathful. This stupid hole knows _nothing._

It's the wrong thing to do, he soon learns. The hole widens again, a gaping maw, opening wider and wider until it seems like it's trying to consume him. Tim can only shuffle out of it's way for so long.

Unexpectedly, the hole's expansion suddenly stops.

A face appears out of the hole.

Atop the head of the strange creature emerging is tar black hair, the colour of crow feathers and kissed with a raven-wing shine. From the distance he stands at, it appears either too well washed or disgustingly greasy, but he can't truly tell which. Below the black bangs that hang in its face, the skin is a pasty, ghastly white. Blue veins trace beneath marble skin, most prominent as a feature; it seems almost translucent in its pallor.

Eyes, the colour of polished lapis lazuli, stare back at him, unblinking and strikingly haunting.

A pale mouth, devoid of all colour whatsoever, is pressed thinly together, only serving to make their existence seem unreal.

The creature― _the boy_ _―_ wears his Robin suit. It's tattered in places. It has holes and scorch marks. There are remnants of dried blood visible.

At first, he thinks it's Jason. For many months, his nightmares always did involve Jason, in one form or another, but it's not.

_It's Tim._

_And yet._

_It's not._

_It's_ Tim.

The other Robin opens his mouth, his creepy, unwavering stare never faltering as he emerges out of the hole, climbing his way out like he's clawing up through the earth.

“ _Go away,” he demands, sounding tortured and just as furious as he had a moment ago. “Go away. You don't belong here. This isn't your home, this isn't your home, this is MY home, leave leave leave, go away go away go away, GET OUT OF MY HOME LEAVE US ALONE GO BACK TO WHERE YOU BELONG YOU DON'T BELONG HERE GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT―”_

Tim raises his hands to his ears, covering them, the screaming growing louder and louder until it seems like it's entirely inside his head. The hole widens again, but this time, Tim isn't fast enough to out run it and escape. The hole widens and swallows him up.

Waking up is an ordeal. The beating headache, pounding out like a hammer through his skull, throbs where Tim hit his head. The stray chunk of debris he'd haphazardly landed on did not want to let itself be forgotten, which is truly unfortunate.

Once conscious, he sits up fast. Too fast. The world spins rapidly, his stomach lurches violently. _Concussion?_ He wonders briefly, then dismisses it. _Does it matter?_ The movement only takes him halfway, propped up onto his elbow. After the wash of nausea passes, he takes his time in hauling himself the rest of the way up.

The room is the colour of fine polished sand. The enormous bed he now sits on is swathed with approximately one hundred pillows with pillowcases of varying and intricate designs. If there were time to gaze and appreciate them like fine art, maybe he would, but the sense of urgency gripping his gut tells him now isn't the time. Tim has to focus, he needs to _think._

The memories, thankfully, come back one at a time and in sequential order. He remembers Ra's and Cassie, he remembers the assassin's, being surrounded, watching Garfield be dragged off, the rock connecting with his skull and finally the team of _definitely_ not Ra's men entering the complex.

For a brief moment, he wonders if he is somewhere other than the base of the League of Assassin's, but a second glance around the room confirms that to be unlikely. The fittings, fixtures and overall design of the room is incontestably Ra's.

Tim shifts, slowly going through the motions, checking each muscle, each bone, confirming injuries or lack thereof. Other than feeling a little stiffness in his back from the bouncy truck journey up the mountainside yesterday― _or at least what he hopes is still yesterday_ _―_ and slightly sore from where he slept awkwardly on his neck, the only injury to be catalogued is the one to his temple.

Legs, folded beneath him in his rush to be upright, stretch out slowly and he sets them on the floor; his shoes are missing.

Without warning, the door to the room―a grand old wooden thing with a distinctly parallel design―opens up widely. Two young women enter, followed immediately by Ra's.

“Leave us,” he says without rigmarole or fanfare, simply brushing the air as though brushing them away. The women bow and leave, it is entirely unnerving to see. It sends a cold shudder down Tim's spine. This place, _these people_ always did. The League always wore a coat of fear, like a heavy blanket draped around its shoulders. No one dared be too loud in such a place.

It's just Ra's and Tim now. A situation so hauntingly familiar, he knows with absolute certainty it has happened in another life.

With hands clasped behind his back, Ra's makes his way over to the only armchair that occupies the room and eases himself down into it with a settled sigh. Instead of reclining, the decrepit man sits bolt upright, ramrod straight. A strange sight in a man of that age. Not that there were any men of Ra's al Ghul's age. With the exception of perhaps Vandal Savage.

The silence grates on Tim's nerves, so he breaks it pre-emptively.

“Ra's.” An acknowledgement.

The man returns the nod. Suddenly, the game, familiar, begins.

“I truly was very surprised to see you Robin,” he begins slowly, without a greeting of his own. “After all―” his eyes narrow sharply, “I believed you to be dead.”

Finally, the old man leans forward ever so slightly, interlacing his fingers before resting his grey goateed chin atop them. His elbows perch on the arms of the chair.

Briefly, Ra's drops eye-contact as he dusts away invisible dirt from the oversized sleeve of his green outer robe. “I still believe that to be the case.” His eyes shoot up. They meet Tim's with all the intensity of the sinister Lazarus Pit. “You're not the ward of Batman I once knew, which begs the question: who are you?”

Sitting rigidly on the bed, he does not move. Instead, “I'll answer your questions if you answer mine,” he says stubbornly.

Ra's gauges him for a moment, then inclines his head. “Alright, so be it. Go ahead, ask your question.”

Part of him wants to relax a little, he does not let himself. “Where are my friends?” he asks, refraining from doing so hurriedly and therefore giving away a weakness he knows Ra's will exploit. Not that the man isn't in a position to do so now anyway. “Are they safe?”

“That's two questions, little Robin,” replies Ra's with a malicious smirk and a quirk of his brow.

Quickly, before Ra's can change his mind, he backtracks. “Are my friends safe?” he amends.

Ra's tips his head once more. “Your friends are safe,” he states, unlocking his fingers and effervescently, carelessly, waving them by his ear. “Uninjured.”

It is the ultimate word causes Tim's heart to jump into his throat.

“Now, my turn,” continues Ra's, baleful smirk besmirching his features once more. “You are not Robin.” It's a statement, nothing else. “Therefore, that does indeed beg the question: who are you?”

 _The truth is a dangerous thing,_ he knows, but lying to Ra's―a man who could deceive the world before Tim had even entered it―will result in a far worse outcome.

Admitting the words is a vastly harder action to perform than Tim thinks it will be.

“Red Robin,” he says, finally, straightening his spine under the piercing green gaze. “Or, at least that's who I used to be. I'm… not entirely sure anymore. I come from a different universe.”

Ra's raises an eyebrow but nods, as if it is all beginning to slot together neatly.

“A replacement,” he remarks with cruel accuracy, to which Tim dearly hopes he doesn't notice the poorly suppressed flinch. “A replacement Robin. Interesting. Although… _a different universe… dear boy,_ that does seem unlikely… however….” Whatever it is that intrigues Ra's about this statement, Tim never finds out.

To cover his reaction, Tim hurriedly asks a new question and attempts to disguise the rest as fear. “We were attacked,” he starts, one socked foot tracing across the floor, but never quite touching. “In the cave, down below. By who?”

Ra's upper lip curls disdainfully. “A friend of mine whom I'm sure you've met, considering you were travelling with his son―Lex Luthor.”

This time, Tim isn't quite able to cover his reaction. The garbled and guttural growl of the other rogue's name scrapes out along his throat with a vicious snarl.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, _then―?_

“Yes,” acknowledges Ra's with a wave of his hand. “I let him take the Superboy. I have no use for him other than as a bargaining chip and Luthor would have simply hounded me until I handed him over anyway.”

The smirk in his voice turns suddenly into the full-blown thing, then. “I'm sure _this_ time he'll fix that _chip_ in the clone-boy's head. To my understanding, the tracking device was supposed to render him unconscious if he strayed too far from Lex's side. Not to mention that I'm quite sure it manipulated his brainwaves, made him want to stay loyal. It clearly failed. Up until now, I don't think Lex was expecting him to ever _want_ to leave his side, especially after all he had done to sully Superman's reputation. I suppose Luthor never counted on the boy's past friendships coming back to life―though then again, you may wear the same face as your counterpart, but you certainly aren't him.”

This new knowledge wends its way through Tim like a river flowing around rocks, rushing ever faster. There's barely enough time to full grasp it, however, before Ra's is drawing his attention back to their game of twenty questions. The poorly constructed mask Tim wears likely does a bad job of fooling Ra's of his astonishment, but then again, perhaps he can work that too in his favour.

“My turn again,” Ra's declares menacingly, running a thumb over the gaudy ring on his left middle finger, eyeing Tim thoughtfully the entire time. “You know my compound extraordinarily well for a fledgling, which tells me, in fact, that you are not. You have been in the League before, _more_ than that, you spent some time here. You _learned_ from me.”

Tim is under no delusion that the question is nothing more than a glorified statement, just a way for Ra's to observe his reactions and get more from their game than is permitted. The poker face he slips on is one he has used before around the Demon Head, the same, though different entirely.

“Get to your point,” he returns, serenely.

The man's face splits, Cheshire-esque. “There,” he almost gasps with glee. “You're not afraid of me either. And the masks you wear are too good to have simply learned them from Batman. You spent a significant amount of time with my doppelganger, didn't you?”

Tim freezes, then nods jerkily. It's imperceptible, he's aware. There's no way Ra's can tell, but it still feels like too much of a reaction. “Yes,” he acknowledges. “I did. I helped him prevent the assassination of assassins.”

Ra's looks strangely amused by this, but offers up nothing more than a calm, thoughtful, “I see.”

Tim bites his lower lip, worrying it until he can taste the copper tang of blood, then shoots his own question. “What about Cassie?” he asks, simultaneously desperate to know the answer while wanting to never hear it at all. “You've done something to her, what?”

Ra's eyebrows raise, though the expression on his face is not really one of true surprise. It's a demented grin hidden in something more palatable. “Surely you recognize a little mind manipulation when you see it?” he states, rhetorically. “I simply made her see the light.”

A flicker of pure, white anger, so hot that Tim could not dare to touch it with bare hands, ignites in his heart for less than a second before settling into a smoky smolder. “Turn her back to normal,” he demands, all heat, all rage.

It does nothing but amuse the man sitting across from him.

Ra's smirk widens. “Hmm,” he hums. “She is valuable to me,” he says, as though pretending to put thought to it. It irritates Tim that the man thinks he can be played with in this way, but then again, he let his emotions control their game of wits―unwise at the best of times. “And I paid a _great deal_ to someone for the alterations to her mind… so I think not,” Ra's finishes with a quick shake of his head. “I would not fret though, little Robin. You will be joining her shortly. I have plans for you too.”

The threat in the man's voice is a dangerous promise. One that sends a violent, cold shudder throughout Tim's entire frame.

Without warning, they both suddenly hear a loud bang and several yells. Out of nowhere, there's a ruckus outside and they both sharply turn their heads to the window. Ra's is almost halfway out of his seat before the wall gets blown inwards. It sends him flying and Tim is saved from the same fate only by virtue of the bedcovers, which he grips onto for dear life. Dust fills the room.

With his face buried in the blankets and his eyes squished shut tightly to keep out any of the errant, flying debris of the wall, Tim doesn't notice the person beside him until he feels the soft heat of a hand by his shoulder.

Had the hand come down on his bare skin, Tim would have said the person simply gave off the same amount of warmth as a bad sunburn would do, however the temperature reaches through the thick fabric of the Robin suit.

“Robin?” asks a curious, soft, and feminine voice by his ear. With the way it is spoken, it almost doesn't sound human.

Lifting his head and slowly blinking open his eyes reveals why.

“S-Starfire?” he stutters, inhaling a lungful of fine dust and coughing it all out again with a hacking wheeze.

The alien princess beams down at him, her skin seeming to glow a little brighter at the recognition.

“I have come to get you out of here,” she says, already hooking an arm around his waist to help him off the bed. Confirming that he is able to stand on his own, she disappears for a moment and miraculously reappears with his uniform combat boots, his utility belt and his bo-staff.

 _Starfire_ , he thinks with almost bewildered surprise, looks exactly the same as the one he left behind in his own universe. Not aged by even a single day, or even in the reverse. The alien princess's hair floats down past her shoulders in long red and gold ringlets, wound tightly. The vibrancy in her glowing green eyes is just as severe as he recalls it, gaze passing over the state of the room she just imploded the wall of.

Tim isn't given the chance to ask what she is doing here. The moment he has finished tying his laces, she has an arm around his midriff again and is hauling him up.

“There's no time to waste,” she responds to his spluttering, pulling him into the air, her skin growing warmer. “We need you.”

Tim has no idea what she means by this as they fly out of the room, only glancing backward long enough to see the limp arm of Ra's al Ghul poking out of the rubble before he turns his attention forward, on to what is to come.

It turns out, he needs no explanation from her after all.

The two of them land in the courtyard, Starfire dropping him unceremoniously with a, “We'll talk once we're in the clear,” before taking off to the other side of the quadrangle. A team of assassin's meet her at the exit, but she cuts through them like a knife through soft butter.

Around him, assassin's are dropping like flies. They look as though the simply fall asleep where they stand, crumpling into unceremonious piles, but he has no doubt there is some kind of magic involved. Before he can figure out where the magic is coming from, however―or even if the magic wielder is a friend or foe, a wild, vicious and violent scream redirects Tim's attention from the odd goings on. It is immediately followed by a louder, higher-pitched scream, although this one is filled with agonising pain and is preceded by a sickening crunch that turns his stomach.

Tim's eyes land on a downed Garfield, stood over by Cassie, looming with that same horrible, crazed look in her eye. It is clearer under the light of day that her mind is not her own. Out in the courtyard, there are no shadows in which to play pretend.

_Whatever Ra's did to her was not good._

Garfield is whimpering loudly, clutching his left leg. It's definitely broken. It sticks out at an odd angle and he feels sick from just looking at it.

“Gar!” cries out another voice, a new voice this time, a quavering treble. It comes from behind him, but it's an alto he recognises.

Whirling, his head snaps to the right, and there, under the shadow of the parapet wall, Raven stands with her hands outstretched.

Still facing Beast Boy and Wondergirl, she grunts as the purple glow surrounding them seems to shutter then snap. The last of the conscious assassin's are no more. Raven's own sharp, intuitive stare crosses over to him in return.

Raven, _Rachel,_ seems both unsurprised and unperturbed by his being there, but it's between one blink and the next that her features contort into an expression more desperate and helpless and afraid.

“ _Robin,”_ she shouts, her hands still raised, the purple glow beginning anew. _“_ _Help me.”_

Between Cassie and Garfield, Rachel has erected what appears to be a barrier. It's thin and almost invisible, but for now it seems to be protecting Beast Boy from Wondergirl's erratic blows. There's desperation intermingled with the concentration on Raven's face and the barrier falters a moment when Wondergirl takes another swing.

The decision to reach for his bo-staff is not one made consciously, nor is the decision to throw himself at Wondergirl and put some distance between herself and Beast Boy.

 _Conner's frightened voice from the night on the rooftop echoes in his ear, pleading with him, demanding he not fling himself straight into the fray,_ but Conner isn't here right now and he's the only one available.

Cassie yelps when his staff wallops her around the back of the skull, then she stumbles, but she catches herself before she falls.

With a leftwards glance, Tim sees Starfire race past, hooking Garfield under the arms and dragging him back towards Raven and out of Tim's peripheral vision. The teen's leg looks disturbingly crooked, but he doesn't have time to worry about that just now.

Quickly recovering her balance, Cassie charges him like a bull, all fists and fury. Unlike Conner, however, and their battle down by the Lazarus Pit, Tim isn't able to take her head on.

She's strong. Stronger than him. She always will be. But Tim is fast. Maybe not faster than her, but definitely fast enough to stay out of range of her fists and play the taunting monkey until Raven or Starfire can help.

In moves that feel like he is finally stretching out the sore muscles in his body, the sequences Tim pulls off aren't ones he has used in a long time. The memories of team training in another life come back to him― _Cassie,_ _he knows,_ _always_ _moves_ _to the right then sw_ _ings_ _with her left._

He bides his time, skipping out of reach until she strikes out in exactly the same way as the version of her in his own universe would do.

It's the chance he's been waiting for.

Tim catches her in the ribs hard and, this time, Wondergirl falls back and lands hard on the paving of the courtyard.

“ _Robin!”_ he suddenly hears behind him, Raven's voice calling out to him wildly. _“Move out the way!”_

Tim doesn't know what he's supposed to be avoiding, but he ducks into a roll and puts as much distance between himself and Cassie as he is able. A moment later, he finds out why.

Raven's hands are held high again, enshrouded in that same deep amethyst glow, but this time her eyes have acquired a terrifying black too.

On the ground, Cassie jerks once, then goes perfectly still and doesn't get up again.

Over the other side of the quadrangle, Raven collapses and hits the ground in a graceless heap.

* * *

Cassie is the first to wake.

She doesn't move at first. Instead, she blinks up at the foggy sky and looks frightfully blank behind her blue-sky eyes, as though she's still not there at all, as though Ra's has carved out her soul in whatever he did to her. It's disturbing to see, moreso than it is to look across to where Garfield is lying broken beside the unmoving mass of cape that is Raven, with Starfire hovering worriedly over the both of them. The world around Tim seems to come to a standstill and, with chest rising and falling in rapid succession, he collapses to his knees. The brutal, unyielding pavement connects hard with his kneecaps and most definitely leaves bruises. Each and every breath feels hard won, with his heart in his throat and his sweaty palms wrapped around the middle of his staff.

Very stiltedly, Cassie sits up. Her legs lay out in front of her and reddened knuckles lightly graze over the paving as she draws upwards. Tim watches her cautiously, his fingers readjusting themselves around his bo-staff as a precaution.

She blinks only once, then her face turns to greet him.

Finally, behind a veil of confusion and an almost sleepy haze, Tim spots signs of true life in her features.

Rosy lips part, but it is only her tongue ducking out lightly to wet them as her brow furrows further with confusion.

The name slips out, but he is expecting it.

“Tim?” she questions, befuddled and apparently disoriented.

From his own mouth, a sigh of relief falls off his tongue as he relaxes again, his frame losing its readied tension as he nods by way of reply.

Still apparently bewildered, her face turns forward again and Tim watches as her gaze lands upon the other huddled group in the courtyard, Raven now too beginning to sit up, clutching at the side of her head with one hand.

Cassie looks down at her palms next, clenching and unfurling her fingers. “What did I―.” The rest of her sentence never comes.

With a grimace, half in sympathy and half from pain, Tim plants his bo-staff vertical against the pavement and leavers himself up with it. One foot on the ground, then the other. The staff doesn't disappear back into place as he takes the two steps that close the gap between himself and Wondergirl, it hangs loosely in his left hand until his shadow falls over her, prompting her to look up at him once more.

Tim stretches out his right hand and replaces the grimace with a weak smile, somehow mustering the energy to do so.

Cassie glances between his palm and his face for a moment, eyes darting between the two before she makes her choice, her own fingers sliding over him. Tim hauls her to her feet and steadies her when she stumbles.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently when she leans against him a moment, taking several deep breaths before managing to stand under her own power once more.

She nods jerkily, an aborted action, then a more convincing version. “Yes,” she breathes, but Tim holds her by the arm for another minute more until he himself is sure.

“What do you remember?” he quizzes as she rubs at her eyes with the pads of her palms.

“N-not much…” she admits as she pulls her hands away, straightening to her full height, yet somehow still managing to look just as vulnerable as before.

 _Whatever Ra's did,_ Tim thinks unhappily, _it really did a number on her._

She sniffs in sharply. “I remember… Conner?” Her nose crinkles as her face takes up a scrunched look. “He was here. He was here but then… then Luthor took him?”

Tim's face hardens, but he nods. Raven is making her way across the courtyard now, looking unharmed as far as he can tell as he scrutinises her even gait. Behind her, Starfire is carrying Garfield in her arms, his leg twisted out at a rather disturbing angle.

“There was a sub-dermal tracking chip,” Tim says once Raven is within earshot, tapping his temple with his forefinger, “implanted in his head. Ra's told me. It was supposed to render him unconscious if he strayed too far from Luthor.”

“ _Shit, that's awful!”_ Garfield curses, then wheezes like someone booted him in the guts. Tim suspects the teen has at least a couple of bruised ribs, if the way he is rasping is any indication.

“It explains the headaches,” Tim continues, glancing between all three of them. “Maybe the device was still trying to do its job this whole time.”

“Maybe it was, _I don't know,_ ” Garfield rasps, “electrocuting his _brain_ or something.”

Tim nods and his knuckles go white around his bo-staff. “It also explains his absence from Titans Tower,” he says, grimly, sending another glance around the group. Tim's eyes come full circle and meet with Garfield's once more. “The device in his head supposedly manipulated his brainwaves. It was Luthor's attempt at trying to _control_ Conner, keep him loyal. It clearly malfunctioned.”

Garfield's expression takes on a winded, pinched look, as though Cassie has caught him off-guard for a second time. “That's why he wouldn't answer my calls,” he croaks, constricted. “Why he was so curt and clipped whenever I tried to speak to him on the phone. Lex was just _using_ him.”

There's a slight pause in which Tim finally stows away his bo-staff. “I have no doubt,” he adds lowly, the barest hint of anger flushing through, “that while Conner and Superman never had an _excellent_ relationship before Luthor intervened, Lex was in all probability using his _mind-control-tracking_ chip way back when too. It may very well have taken Conner's agency to _choose_ Superman over Lex.”

Cassie, when Tim catches sight of her out of the corner of his eye, looks ready to end the entire world at this news.

“There's no time to waste then,” she hisses, seething, catching his gaze in return. “We need to go after him. We have to get to him. We have to get him out of there before Luthor does something irreversible.”

Raking his eyes over her slightly swaying form, Tim feels enormously dubious about agreeing to Cassie coming along, but before he is able to say as much, Raven interjects.

“We have to go save Superboy,” agrees the dark haired girl, joining the conversation, a small tremble in her delicate tone, “but there is a second matter.”

Briefly, underneath her eyelashes, she meets each of their stares in turn, a heavy fear lurking behind her purple irises. Finally, she meets Tim's gaze. “A second matter that is just as pressing.”

As if to bolster her courage, Raven draws in a deep breath to steel herself.

“As much as I would love to catch up with you all on a heroic effort to rescue Conner, there's a reason I've been away so long.”

Tim does not miss the way her eyes subtly slide toward Garfield before darting back to Cassie, an apologetic expression that makes Garfield's own features twist and writhe with confliction, hurt and hope warring with each other.

“I left to go search for Bart,” she continues. “And I finally found him, with Starfire's help.”

Cassie simply stares at her, wide-eyed. “You… you _found_ him?”

Raven returns her question with a nod, but it's all seriousness and solemnity. “We did, but you're not going to like where.”

Starfire looks just as grim. Her flame coloured ringlets falling around her face like a veil as she lowers her gaze. The long pause of hesitation on Rachel's part is only broken when Starfire finally clears her throat.

“Tell them,” the bronze woman declares, sounding as though she has only just managed to swallow past the thick lump in her throat.

Raven closes her eyes before she begins. Tim's heart drops to his stomach like a heavy stone to a lake.

“Bart… Bart went _back._ He went back to try and rescue Robin and… and we think he got stuck in the past. The problem, as identified by Starfire when we found him, is that the pocket of time he is trapped in? It's closing, and it's closing fast. He's got a day, a day and a half at _most._ The pocket of time has been open for too long already. The rules of time-travel are tricky. Starfire could not enter the pocket of time because she was not present the first-time around, and I could not enter because I am required to hold the portal open and stable. If Bart doesn't get out by the time it closes, he'll be trapped there forever.”

“I was there,” says Cassie, quickly putting her hand up. “I can go.”

 _There's a fault in this plan,_ Tim thinks. Though it seems he's the only one seeing it.

“You're also the only one strong enough to subdue Conner if Luthor really _has_ control over his mind,” he inerrupts, feeling his fingers start to itch with the need to _do_ something.

_He really doesn't want a newly deprogrammed Wondergirl racing off to rescue an equally as brainwashed Superboy, but as far as he can tell, there's little choice in the matter._

Starfire agrees, her own thoughts apparently travelling along the same vein. The woman shoots him a small, disconcerted smile before her face evens out again as she returns to Cassie.

“We actually came looking for Beast Boy. I had been off planet for several months before Raven contacted me, we had no idea you were being held hostage, Wondergirl. Had I known…” Starfire trails off.

Cassie says nothing, but Tim doesn't miss the way her bottom lip trembles slightly as she nods by way of acknowledgement. _There's trauma there now,_ he knows. _And it's going to take her a long time to unravel it all._

“With Gar as he is now though…” Raven says, eyeing him dubiously and cutting into the quiet that has fallen around the four of them. “He can't even _walk.”_

It's an easy decision. Tim makes it right then and there as he steps forward. “I'll go,” he declares boldly, his mind already made up.

Cassie seems to do a double take.

“No way,” she exclaims with surprise. “You _can't_.”

It's with pity that Tim knows now is the time to finally bring them careening back down to earth. For Cassie, who has lost so much, he's sure this will hurt, but he figures it is like ripping off a band-aid. It's best to do it fast.

“Cassie,” he addresses her, then turns to the others in turn. “Raven, Starfire. I'm not Tim.”

Just as before with Garfield, then Conner, and just as he expects, they all fall silent.

Cassie takes a faltering step forward, moving first, her hand reaching out to touch him on the shoulder, a smile made of plaster on her lips.

“Of course you are,” she says, still unwavering. “Of course you are Tim. Who else could you be?”

Tim shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I'm not _your_ Tim. I'm not from this universe. I… I don't belong here.”

_There's a hole in his mind and at this the hole grows smug, looking down at the scene with glee through his own eyes._

Neither Starfire, Wondergirl or Raven say anything to that, but he catches them exchanging indecipherable glances between one another. Tim is not really expecting them to take it badly, certainly not as Conner did, but their silence builds anxiety. It pumps through him with every quickening pound of his heart.

It's Starfire who first gathers the courage to speak, but despite the gentility in her voice, he still flinches like he's been slapped.

“Timothy,” she begins, casting glances between the other members of the group that he only realises in retrospect are strangely nervous. Garfield, shaking with pain, pale and looking frankly wilted in her grip, ignores his own needs in favour of patting her arm in encouragement. “Or, _not-Timothy_ if you prefer. I want… I want to share something with you, if you will let me. A piece of my culture.”

In response, Tim neither shakes his head nor nods it. Simply, he waits and Starfire takes his silence as a sign to continue. Now hardly seems like the appropriate time to share Tamarinian culture, but it must be important if she is choosing to do so now.

“On my world we believe that everything is connected,” she begins, gaining a faraway look in her eye the longer she speaks. “That animals and plants and everything in the whole universe is bound together.”

Momentarily she stops, pausing to refocus on him as well as to offer a compassionate smile and a renewed fervour in her tone.

“I believe that this bond, this connection that we all share extends to other universes as well. So you see, even if you claim not to belong here with us, in truth, you do. You always have and you always will.”

There's something heavy inside his chest which is making it harder to breathe. While he's not sure he entirely believes Tamarind religious devotions, it's nice to hear, at the very least.

Beside her, Cassie and Raven both nod, Garfield weakly grins up at him too.

“Besides,” Starfire finishes with a grin. “Raven and I… we _suspected_ as much.”

Somehow, this surprises him less than he thought it would. Briefly he glances between the two of them, finding sympathy in Raven's face and a serenity in Starfire's.

“I have a plan,” he begins anew, zeal in his voice. “If I am right about this whole thing―rescuing Bart, I mean―the fact that I am not the Tim Drake of _this_ universe should hardly matter. The laws of time-travel won't be able to tell the difference. Besides, I have a hunch about that anyway. If I go, the continuum will be preserved. The universe will simply see us as one person.”

Starfire thinks upon this a moment, then nods sagely. “Everything is connected,” she repeats.

Starfire looks at Raven, and Raven looks at Cassie, and Garfield looks nervously between all three of them.

“It isn't like we have much choice,” Cassie eventually concedes with a shrug.

He turns to the others before the seal of approval can be revoked. “Great,” he says. “Once we've got Bart, we'll meet you in Gotham.”

“The memorial walk,” interjects Garfield shakily, straining to be heard by all, wan and looking while around the edges despite his perpetual shade of evergreen. “We'll meet you by the Gotham memorial walk along the park side.”

Raven nods back as she peels away from the rest of the group.

“Then it's settled,” she says a moment later, pinning them each with a serious stare, her eyes eventually settling on Garfield. “We'll see you soon. Gotham memorial walk.”

They each nod back.

Cassie is the first to turn, beckoning Starfire and Gar to follow, announcing the way to the hangar. They'll take a plane to Metropolis, get Conner and then make their way to Gotham, yet, as Tim watches them go, the strangest sensation swirls tightly through his stomach. _Oddly, this feels like it might be goodbye…_

“Good luck!” he calls out after them as Raven begins to make large movements with her hands, shapes in the air that signal the opening of a portal.

He is halfway turned to it before he thinks he hears his name called, but a sparing glance around the courtyard reveals no one else there with them.

Tim does not see anyone else before he steps inside the portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, I commend you for making it this far. Honestly, I have no idea who is still reading 😂 but thank you so much for sticking with me! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doppelgangers afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Ra's implied as being a creepy old man & graphic depictions of violence in this chapter. Take care of yourselves!
> 
> Enjoy!

_Outside the window of the plane, the compound finally comes into view through the gaps in the mountain mist. Though she's sure it doesn't show, Pru feels a shudder of terror run through her as she peers down. The League of Assassin's fortress always was an imposing base, though now, on the outside, it seems even more so. Prudence never thought she would return to this place. Certainly not after it was blown up._

“ _Ten minutes until decent,” Batman announces up front, voice gruff. It's a cover for his apprehension, but it's a poor one―they can all hear the restless unease in his gravelly growl after the hours of disuse._

_Beside her, Damian looks nervous. In his lap, he is clenching and unclenching his hands, laying his palms flat on his knees then balling them up into fists again._

_The hum of the plane engine almost renders Jason's words inaudible, but Pru always was good at reading lips._

“ _You think he's okay?” asks the vigilante, quiet albeit definitely agitated, to Dick, who is strapped in on his right. The words trip over one another in their rush, his timbre raspy but with a nervous hush. “Tim, I mean. You don't think―”_

_Abruptly and curtly, Dick cuts him off. Pru can see the barely controlled dread pooling in his own sharp, sapphire irises, only just managing to appear calm on the surface while the storm rages below. “I'm sure he is fine, Jay. Like I said, Tim has handled Ra's before, he can do it again.”_

_He speaks much louder than Jason does, maybe to simply bolster his confidence, self-reassure of the wish he fervently hopes is the truth. There is more fear than honesty in his words. If anything, Dick seems more frightened than the rest. The oldest of Bruce Wayne's children seems to shoulder responsibilities blindly, heaping them one atop another until he's crouched over and bent with their weight. If Pru had the words, she would tell him not to do that, it only brings more pain in the long run, but she doesn't, so she stays silent and tears her open stare away to face front._

“ _Tim will be fine,” Bruce adds firmly up front, though Prudence is sure it is not just to her ears that the words sound too sharp to really be convincing. Luckily, Batman had been right about the bunker underground in the middle of the desert where they had picked up this plane. She only hopes he is right about this too._

_Jason snorts, bravado on his tongue. “Yeah, well,” he says, folding his arms over his chest and permitting a cocky little smile to scud across his lips. “If he isn't, I'll be hauling his ass back from the dead myself.”_

_The concept of another of her friends, dead, tips Pru over the edge. Jason's words make her sick. They're so similar, she and he. Perhaps that is why they relate so easily, but also why she finds him hard to understand._

“ _Shut up,” she growls, whipping her head around to pin him with an unforgiving glare. “Don't even joke about that, asshole.”_

_It renders all three of her back-seat companions speechless a moment. Damian stares at her with wide eyes until he gathers himself enough to glower in Jason's direction, while Dick simply sits looking stunned. Jason, to his credit, slams his lips closed and looks thoroughly chastised._

_In the mirror, Pru catches the best of the Bat-glare in return, but the sharp expression softens into something thankful a moment later. Bruce Wayne is protective of his kids. Thankfully, he's protective of_ all _of his kids._

_They're all sure to buckle up before landing._

_Damian grasps the arm of his chair with a grip so tight his knuckles go white under the pressure. Pru wraps her own hand over-top in comfort. To her great surprise, the boy does not immediately shake her off._

_They land less than fifteen minutes later without incident, the plane using its hover engines to land spot between two mountain ridges, but still within sight of the League's base._

“ _You okay, Dames?” Dick asks once they're safe on the ground, retrieving his escrima sticks from storage as they all head back there to retrieve their weapons and haul on more body armour in Pru's case._

_The kid huffs and turns away, to which Pru only sees Nightwing smile as he applies his mask. The kid is far more terrified of returning to the League than he is letting on, but Dick either cannot tell or is rolling with it easily. Either way, Prudence's eyes narrow at his retreating back, making a silent vow to stay close to the boy._

_Nobody understands Damian in this moment more than she, so perhaps, she thinks, it is a good idea to stick together. There's no telling what might happen if he runs into the Demon Head._

_After equipping themselves and securing the plane, Batman leads them out of the valley and around the small patches of snow that sometimes appear at this altitude. They make their way down the ridge single-file, with the mist swirling around them and doing a fairly good job of obscuring them from watching eyes._

_The shelf of rock above the compound is where they take their leave from the mountainside. They hammer their hooks into the rock and abseil down with speed and surety._

_By the time they reach the compound one hundred meters below the rock shelf, Prudence thinks it is safe to say the place is a mess._

_From where they perch on the tallest turret of the fortress, Pru can see an enormous hole that looks to have been blown into the side of the compound, military personnel swarming about the main courtyard. No, not military. Mercenaries._

_Along the exposed upper parapets, she catches glimpses of heavy set warriors, clad in bullet-proof vests with expensive weaponry running down them, silent but swift._

_Most of the assassin's go unnoticed as they slit the throats of the mercenaries caught unawares._

“ _Who are these men, Batman?” Robin asks beside her, frowning deeply behind his domino mask as he surveys the area._

_To Pru's left, there is a window stained red with blood. She shifts her body to block it from the young boy's view. It's not something he needs to see._

“ _Mercenaries,” Batman deduces, the same as she, then adds, “Mercenaries hired by Lex Luthor, I believe. If the weaponry is anything to go by.”_

“ _Luthor?” Nightwing hisses, his head jerky sharply in Batman's direction. Beneath the mask, Pru swears she can see his eyes widen in surprise. “What's he doing here?”_

_Red Hood grunts, then smirks. “Ra's and Luthor are on the outs, it seems.”_

_Batman ponders the scene before them a moment longer, his gloved hand coming up to stroke his chin in a very detective-esque manner before he replies again in a slower murmur. Were the situation not so grave, Pru would have snorted with amusement._

“ _It does appear that way,” he responds lowly, not taking his eyes off the two mercenaries in the open hall now engaged in a shoot out with a pair of assassin's lurking behind a doorway. “As for why, we have too little information to formulate a motivation, but this changes nothing.”_

_Batman's eyes flick over to Dick. “Our first priority is still getting Tim out of here. We can worry about Ra's and Luthor later if they become problems.”_

_A little whine escapes Red Hood, though through the helmet it comes out as more of a long huff. “I don't know B,” he expresses with no shortage of worry in his timbre. “I don't like this plan, if it can even be called that. What's the back-up?”_

_Bruce shakes his head, a little sadly, if Pru isn't mistaken._

“ _No back-up plan,” he replies. “There's no time. If Tim is indeed already in Ra's possession then we need to get him out immediately. I don't trust that man not to have already hurt Tim._ ”

_Jason goes pale around the edges, but nods nonetheless while Dick draws in a shaky breath and turns his gaze back on the scene below._

_When Batman finally looks at her, Pru meets his steel hardened glare with an acknowledging nod of her own._

_If there are dubious thoughts about the plan after that, or lack thereof, nobody voices them._

_They enter the compound through the upper parapets, fortunately without drawing attention to themselves, before slipping into the nearest watchtower. There's nobody inside, but with all the fighting going on elsewhere in the fortress, Pru doesn't really expect there to be._

_With the privacy of solid walls now blocking them from sight, Batman finally turns to her._

“ _You know this place,” he states, his unrelenting glare striking her as more anxious than angry, though the mask makes him appear as such. “Where do you think Ra's is holding Tim?”_

_Pressing her lips together tightly in pondering the question, Prudence flicks her gaze to the narrow candle on the wall, the flames dancing and casting a faint light in the otherwise dark room._

“ _If the Ra's of this universe is anything like the Master I served, then there are three potential options,” she states. “But I really don't think you're going to like any of them.”_

_Batman acknowledges this, then, “Tell me.”_

_Pru steels herself, wrapping her arms one over the other in front of her stomach._

“ _Option one,” she begins, “is the prison. It's below the armoury on the other side of the compound. Option two, the room with the Lazarus Pit―Ra's has a strange tendency to keep all his valuable things in one safe place.”_

_At the mention of the Pit, she sees a physical shudder run the length of Red Hood's body, but she doesn't pause._

“ _Option three,” she continues, tightening her arms around her waist, “is… is the guest chambers.”_

_The hesitancy and reluctance that comes with the admission seems to surprise Batman a moment. Prudence really does not wish to elaborate further, especially as to why_ _an enemy such as Tim―a young man with a sharp mind and a witty repertoire―would and could ever be a guest of Ra's al Ghul, but fortuitously, Bruce puts two and two together relatively quickly._

_At the horrifying notion, the man's mouth erupts into a snarl, the room filling with a vicious, snapping growl._

“ _That bastard,” Red Hood swears as her words finally sink in, Nightwing just barely managing to hold the other man in place. “I'll kill him._ I'll kill that bastard if he so much as touched a hair on Tim's head.”

_Robin looks very much as though he agrees with the sentiment, but Pru's attention is diverted from the young boy back to Red Hood once again as Nightwing's grasp on his brother falters and Jason slips free._

_With a brutal swing, Red Hood slams the door open and immediately reaches one hand each for the guns in his thigh holsters. The second of Bruce's brood has disappeared out of sight barely a minute later._

“ _Ja―Hood!” Batman shouts after him, futilely reaching a gauntlet toward his retreating back._

_Nightwing moves like a hummingbird. Fluidly and with movements too fast for the eye to catch._

“ _I'll go after him,” he offers without a moments hesitation, off like a shot through the door._

“ _Shit,” Batman swears helplessly. With military-like efficiency, he turns to Prudence and Damian, shrugging on his authority again like putting on a heavy winter coat. “Which of the other two options are safest? Which are you less likely to run into any trouble?” he asks her._

“ _Probably the prison,” she replies after a second of thought. “It's the furthest away, but there's not likely to be too many obstacles between us and there.”_

“ _Good,” replies Batman with a nod. “Then you two will head there. I will take the Lazarus Pit.”_

“ _But Father―” Robin starts, beginning his protest, which is swiftly cut off._

“ _No, Damian,” says Bruce, harshly. “You will do as you are told. Go with Prudence, keep each other safe. If Tim isn't there, meet us back here. Understand?”_

_The young Robin grumbles a little, in the way that makes her think he might scuff his shoe if he was any other boy, but eventually he mumbles out an affirmative acknowledgement. It's all Batman is waiting to hear. After ruffling the child's locks with a passing hand, the man is gone, following after his older sons and disappearing out of sight._

_Pru watches him until he disappears, then sticks her head out the doorway and looks down the next hall to her right. There are stairs descending to the lower levels and with no one guarding them, they'll be able to slip in easily._

“ _Are you ready?” she asks, turning back to the young boy, who blinks back at her sulkily from behind white lenses._

_Damian wrinkles up his nose and sniffs abruptly, but nods and follows her nonetheless as she slips without a sound out the door and down the hall, her feet making no noise when they hit the stone steps that descend down into the second level of the compound._

_There are fewer places to hide in the long and narrow corridors. Several times, Pru has to press up into the shallow door-frames, with Damian stuck to her side like he has been glued there. At one point, three men pass the T-junction ahead of them and disappear, to which she releases a huff of relief._

“ _This way,” she says, gesturing, which earns her a disdainful, bombastic scoff from the boy._

“ _I know the way,” he sneers, but the genuine hint of derision is lost behind the opaque tint of fear still lurking in his voice. “I lived here too,” he adds, in a voice much quieter, turning on his heel and pushing his way past._

_They follow their memories through the labyrinth of corridors almost to the antechamber of the guard watch-house without any troubles at all, but their luck turns as they reach the final junction. Two masked assassin's appear up ahead and one takes them almost by surprise when they sneak up behind._

_Damian unsheathes his sword without hesitation and Pru isn't far behind with her guns from their holsters to her hands in less than two seconds._

_Nobody says anything. The five of them are too busy gauging each other, but the frightfully feral snarl on the boy's face almost makes Pru snicker―_ what a dramatic little thing, _she thinks privately._

_Prudence's patience eventually wears thin. With a gun pointed in each direction down both ways of the corridor, she whips her head between the three assassin's still eyeing her like vultures to a recent kill._

“ _Let us pass,” she demands, still attempting to identify the leader of this small group, the one who would rank highest among Ra's subordinates. “Let us pass and we'll give you no trouble. We're not with Luthor.”_

_The lone assassin sneers back at her, black mask obscuring their face. All Prudence can see between the slip of cloth that allows them to see are two piercing blue eyes that feel horribly familiar._

“ _We know,” replies another assassin at the opposite end of the hall, a deep, masculine voice thick with danger. “We can tell.”_

_In her moment of distraction, the assassin she had turned away from races forward, darting like an arrow. It surprises both herself as well as the boy, because the young Robin, caught off-guard, isn't given any time to raise his weapon in defence before the assassin pistol whips him cold in the head, rendering the child unconscious almost instantly._

_It's reflexive, the way Pru's finger curls around the trigger. The shot rings out loudly in the small hallway, the bullet embedding itself in the stomach of the masculine assassin down the other end._

_The more lithe assassin who had pistol whipped Damian into submission retaliates with a strangled scream followed by a furious growl._

_The second assassin drags the body with the bullet in it down another hall, out of sight._

_What Prudence certainly isn't expecting is for the remaining assassin to tear off her mask, revealing a shockingly familiar face beneath._

“ _You're―!” she screeches, her own face rushing toward her, features twisted in a brutal and bloodthirsty grimace, white teeth glinting dangerously._

_It's her doppelganger._

“ _Shit,” she swears as her counterpart rushes her, managing to knock both guns out of her hands while Pru takes a belated second to process. The second wasted costs her weapons._

“ _You shot Z!” her counterpart hurls with a hiss, own guns discarded, fists flying, aiming for Prudence's throat. “You might have killed him and for that you will pay with your life!”_

_Just barely does she manage to duck, dodge and weave around the blows, her opponent becoming more frustrated with every manoeuvre. The difference between them, it seems, is that Prudence has spent the last several months severing her ties with this place, learning from new masters. Whereas_ this _Pru has been tied down by the loyalties of the living._

_There comes a narrow miss. A kick toward her shin and a slice that just skims the top of her bald head. Pru dodges, then ducks, her hand slipping into her boot to seize the last weapon on her person―her knife. It slips into her hand easily and the strike she makes toward her doppelganger is one she does unthinking._

_The knife cuts through the air and connects with her counterpart's throat, slicing clean over the voice box._

_The doppelganger stumbles, just as the action's consequences make themselves known. Pru, suddenly, realises what she has done, her hands flying to her throat. Blood spurts forth like a fountain. It spills out over her hands as her counterpart's eyes go wide, like enormous saucers as she chokes._

_Shell shocked, Pru simply stands there. Her feet are bound to the floor like tree roots. They have sunk into the earth._

_The other woman collapses helplessly to her knees. She's trying to say something, but the words never make it to Pru's ears. The woman continues to splutter, but Prudence does not move. Her own hands wrapped around her own throat, fingers secure over her own near-death scar, matching in its shape and place._

_Unexpectedly, a cry comes out from the junction down the hall._

“ _It's the kid!” somebody shouts. “It's Tim's brother! We can't leave him here.”_

_Pru blinks down at herself. Her doppelganger looks pale as a porcelain doll now. Her hands tremble. Prudence feels frozen. Numb and disconnected with herself, as though viewing the world through a kaleidoscope._

“ _We'll take him,” says another voice, female._

_Is this what watching yourself die looks like?_

No, _another part of her mind screams in the pitch blackness inside her head, the windows shuttered, the doors closed_ _, trying to force her body to turn. She manages only her neck. No, you can't take him!_

_Finally, with great effort, she forces herself to tear her eyes away from the almost unconscious version of herself on the ground. In the arms of a blonde girl, the unconscious little Robin is being hauled upwards._

_The blonde looks cross as she holds him close to her chest, frowning. “He'll be dead weight when we get to Metropolis.”_

_No, don't take him, please._

“ _Don't worry,” says_ _a boy, green in colour_ _._ _He is in the arms of a much larger lady, his ankle twisted outwards at a painful looking degree. Prudence wonders how he appears so calm and collected, given how much agony he is bound to be in._ _“I don't plan to let him get anywhere near the fight._ _Once we meet Robin and Raven in Gotham we'll give him back, but we can't just leave him.”_

_T_ _hey disappear just as quickly as they had come, the smallest of cries on Pru's lips as she finally manages to unstick her feet from the floor._

_Slowly, her eyes drag back over the quiet, unconscious form of her counterpart._

The universes are aligning. _She faintly understands, somewhere in the back of her mind,_ _t_ _he universe's are merging._ _Or, perhaps, they were always aligned._

* * *

The portal opens up to a grey and cloudy Gotham.

Immediately, Tim's breaths, already rapid, start to come quicker.

The overcast sky is heavy with the promise of rain, a brisk chill in the air signifying a cool autumnal change on the horizon. It's Gotham through and through, the city in its entirety.

It's home.

Raven steps out of the portal after him and in that moment Tim notices a bird hanging in the air, as though frozen in mid-flight. Rachel and himself are the only two living in a world suspended in time.

With a small, sad smile peeking out around the edges of her fringe, she speaks, wasting no time, though it seems as though they have as much of it in the world to Tim.

“Once I leave,” she starts, though it isn't heavy with the weight of a conversation begun anew, “the world will spin again. It will unfreeze.” Raven gestures to the bird in mid flight above them and spares it too a sorrowful glance. “It's a bit complicated to explain, but you don't have much time. You'll not have many chances of getting Bart out of here. Two, three at most. The loop is closing and it's closing fast.”

With a nod that feels as though the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, Tim bows his head, musing that perhaps those are exactly the stakes.

“Don't worry,” he returns with a deep, somewhat grim sigh. “I'll get him out.”

Curiously, Raven quirks her whole head, tilting it with unhappy intrigue. “This isn't goodbye, you know,” she says, reading around him and between the unspoken things Tim doesn't say. “You're going to come back.”

The chances, though, don't feel particularly hopeful. Not to him, at least.

Tim smiles weakly at her. “As long as Bart makes it out, then I will have played my part.”

Raven scowls in return, but he doesn't let her interject, instead pressing on with a determined resignation.

“I think I've been on borrowed time for much longer than I'm willing to admit,” he continues, a weak pulsation of fear beginning to set in his bones, like his body is processing before his mind is ready to accept the truth. “I thought by coming here, I could fix everything. But I realise now that all the choices I've made have been purely selfish. I'm not _your_ Tim Drake. And you're not _my_ Titans. The Batman that brought me here… he isn't _mine._ I've only made more of a mess.”

Raven levels him with a glare. “Don't talk like you're not coming back, Tim, because you _are."_

It somehow feels like a lie. A pretty lie, but a lie nonetheless.

_Still…_

He's played the game this long.

“You're right,” he says with a pearly little laugh, the colour of bells and sunshine, nothing that feels real. “You're right, I'm just being dumb.”

Rachel nods and folds her arms over her chest in a brutish manner. “Damn straight you are,” she replies, obviously trying to shake off her own worries. “ _Damn straight._ And you're coming back, you hear?”

With another laugh, this one only a little more genuine, Tim nods once more. “Yes ma'am,” he returns with a little salute.

With a deep breath, Raven braces herself.

“Okay, are you ready?” she asks, concerned and purposive all at once. “Once I leave, time will start again. You'll be on your own. Once you've found Bart, press this.” Digging into her pocket, Rachel pulls out what appears to be a dog training clicker in pinks and purples and passes it over to him.

“It's an inter-dimensional beacon, works in space-time pockets like this one too,” she explains, eyeing it as his thumb traces over the purple button. “Once you click it, I'll be able to pinpoint your location and pull the two of you out of here before the space pocket closes.”

Shaking out her hands, Raven opens up another portal and gives him a soft smile.

“Good luck, Tim,” she says.

The purple and black circle hovers in the air for the duration of time it takes for her to walk through it. Then, Raven has disappeared and Tim is on his own.

The bird, suspended in the air, flutters past with a rush and a flapping of wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update. I realised I was two and a half chapters ahead in writing so I decided to post this one. Next chapter will still be the seventh of Dec., so updates still to come on time! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who let me know they were still reading last chapter. It's been a really rough week for me. I've been reading and re-reading all your comments. I always get to this point in my story writing and go, "Lol, is anyone still reading this apart from me?" So it's good to know I'm not alone! Thank you. Each and every one of you, it means a lot to me 😊❤️.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suicidal thoughts, bombs.

_At some point, after wandering aimlessly for ages, Pru runs into Nightwing._

_The blood of her doppelganger stains her hands. It paints her skin red from where it spurted out over her knife and tainted her fingers a criminal crimson._

_The inside of her head feels thick and foggy, she is dazed and confused, wandering around in the deepest depths of an ocean. Some part of her mind recognises that she is in shock, but right now there is little she can do about it._

_It is so strange._

_She's killed so many people in her life, it's never affected her before, not quite like this. It's different, somehow, killing… killing herself._

_Dick Grayson grips her by her shoulders. She has a feeling she sways in his arms. His voice is muffled, as though it is coming at her through thick glass or a padded door. Partly, however, it still grounds her in the moment._

“― _is he?” the man in black and cerulean blue asks, frantic notes of panic in his voice as he casts his gaze around her then down at her bloodied hands. “Where's Damian?”_

_The vigilante's voice trickles in, like water it seeps through the cracks in her head._

“ _Gone,” she returns, faintly shaking her head, still numb and disbelieving._

_There's barely more than the slightest recognition of danger when a forearm suddenly presses up against her wind pipe. Her eyes draw up, hazily meeting a pair of green tinted irises._

_Jason pins her to the wall, a knife pressed over her throat in some sick parody of her crimes._

“ _Where,” grits out the younger male, violence a promise in his voice. “Who… where's the body?”_

_Behind him, Dick Grayson weakly sputters out Jason's name, but then proceeds to smother his own face in his hands. It all feels so unreal to Pru, who can only manage to stare until the cold twist of the knife against her neck ushers in a brief moment of clarity. The cool edge of metal elucidates._

_A whimper escapes her lips as she shakes her head despite the knife, the blade pressing in painfully now, drawing blood which she can feel trickling the length of her neck._

“ _It's not him,” she says, swallowing thickly, holding up her bloodied hands as if to say, 'don't shoot'. “It's not the kid.”_

_The blood drips off her fingers thickly, landing with pitter-patters on the ground below. In places where it's dried, a copper brown crust sticks to her skin._

_It's not much, but it's enough. Nightwing's face surges upwards, his eyes darting over her face in search of a lie, though there's none to find._

_Red Hood retracts the knife just an inch, apparently coming to the same conclusion._

“ _What do you mean 'it's not him'?” he snarls, the distinct bite of fear nipping at his timbre, despite the great lengths he goes to to cover it up. “Explain.”_

_Prudence glances downwards at her hands, curling her fingers inwardly until they touch her palms, making loose fists. Some of the dried blood cracks and flakes off, floating to the ground. It's not her blood and yet, somehow, it is._

_The slow to come lucidity blooms into perspicacity when she looks up once more, taking in the faces of two men who have already lost too much. They're not children, but there's a childish and vulnerable hope in both their differing, yet similar expressions. The kind that comes from wounds and scars inflicted when young, the kind that never heal quite right, the kind that are formative and rooted more deeply than the roots of the oldest and largest trees._

“ _It's not Robin's blood,” she clarifies, more firmly now, no room for ambiguity against such a backdrop of fear and uncertainty._

_It's Nightwing who moves first, losing tension in every limb as his whole body slumps with relief._

_The knife in Red Hood's hand twitches. Jason is not as quickly mollified. Anxiety remains still, muscles taut. “Then,” he begins, voice sharp, but low, “where is he? Where's Damian?”_

“ _Gone,” she repeats, “A green boy took him.”_

_Both Dick and Jason freeze, as though fearing to draw breath too quickly. The worry on their faces for Damian_ and _Tim is plain. They are good brothers, she thinks. It's a shame they've not been able to tell Tim how much they both clearly love and adore him, but perhaps following him through universes may just prove it in the stead of words. Actions, as they say, speak louder than words._

“ _I heard them say something about taking him to Metropolis,” she continues, not hesitating for a moment. “But I also heard them say that Tim has gone to Gotham.”_

“ _Shit,” Red Hood swears, spinning on his heel to glace back at Nightwing. The growl is more Batman than Jason, but Pru keeps that thought to herself as he returns his knife to place. “We can't be in two places at once.”_

_There's a short pause in which both vigilante's appear to be considering their options, but it's Nightwing who supplies the first._

“ _No,” he says, a strange touch of excitement in his voice. “We can be.”_

_There's a pause. A long length of time in which the Red Hood and Pru simply stare at the blue and black vigilante, standing unmoved with a grin a mile wide spreading further across his face._

_Jason figures it out before she does. “Of course,” he exclaims, explicating aloud. “I completely forgot our copies were still in Metropolis!”_

_Dick claps him on the shoulder, still beaming._

“ _We can get them back,” he says, words firm and hopeful, as though it's an absolute, sure thing. “We can get them both back.”_

_Jason nods. Once, determinedly._

“ _Let's get our brothers back.”_

* * *

It's a mess, Tim instantly decides, looking around at a perfectly average day in Gotham. Given the gravity of the situation, he feels like he should be surrounded by wailing sirens, but instead the city is strangely sunny and there's an upbeat pulsing through the veins of the streets.

Bart swears as he blitzes past, faster than the naked eye can catch him. The only reason Tim knows is by the tone of voice and the shock of red hair.

Rolling his eyes and letting loose a few choice expletives of his own, Tim runs after him at his own dismally slow pace. Following the blur, it turns out, is the right thing to do.

It isn't long until he rounds the corner between the street and a subway exit. There he can see T.O. Morrow laughing gleefully, just as Conner had described to him. It feels partly surreal.

“Not enough time!” Bart shouts, racing past him, the opposite direction now.

Only a few meters off, Tim can see his own counterpart, bent at the foot of the bomb. It's bigger than he had thought it would be.

T.O. Morrow disappears with a jovial shout, slipping through a green and yellow portal that is too opaque to see into. In the distance, a younger looking Cassie curses at him, then races to clear the citizens from the blast radius.

Bart zooms past once more, but this time, he comes to a screeching halt only three feet from Tim before turning, curiously.

The boy blinks at him. Once, then several more times in rapid succession after that.

“You're not supposed to be here,” he states bluntly, obviously surprised.

Hands rise up to rest on Tim's hips as a wry smirk wriggles its way onto his face.

“Astute,” is all he replies.

Bart glances at the other Tim, still hunched over the bomb and working furiously to dismantle it, then looks back again.

“You're different,” he says, his eyes narrowing, scrutinising intently. “You're…”

“Older?” he supplies.

“No,” replies Bart back. “Nothing so obvious. You're… a counterpart?”

_Ah,_ Tim thinks as he nods. _Brilliant Bart, always much smarter than people gave him credit for._

Somehow, confirmation of this fact does not please the other boy. In fact, it serves to only make him mad.

“You shouldn't _be_ here,” he hisses, emphasising his point with a rather childish stamp of his foot on the ground. “You're not _supposed_ to be here!”

This time, it's Tim's turn to be confused.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “I'm here to _save_ you, I'm here to get you out of this wretched time-loop!”

Bart harrumphs loudly. “I don't _need_ saving! Don't you see, that's what I'm trying to do for _you!”_ Both his arms gesture at the other Tim, still bent on the ground and entirely unaware of the argument happening behind him. “I've spent months on this, hell _, years_ ,” the speedster continues, rolling his eyes with a degree of impatience, “only for what? For _you_ to come in here and mess it up? No thanks. Now just… stay out of my way. I'll deal with you later, there's not enough _time_.”

Bart makes as though he is about to speed away again, but Tim goes for his arm before he gets the chance and latches on tightly.

“Wait,” he says, though it is more demand than request. “What are you talking about? _Mess it up?_ Bart, explain this to me, please.

Indecision hangs in the air a moment, Bart frozen, though still bristling with annoyance. Finally, after what feels like a breath held too long, the boy relaxes and sags to the ground.

“Fine,” he puffs, “but just so you know, this means the time-loop will inevitably reset. Gotham will explode, Tim will die, the loop will reset.”

With that, Bart swiftly hauls him up in his arms at the speed of light, and suddenly they're going at a pace so fast that Tim sees nothing but a blur of buildings followed by a blur of woodlands. They stop at the edge of a forest, a tall power-line running straight through the middle.

It's minute before he finds his feet again after Bart sets him down.

“I know you're not the Tim from back there,” he says eventually, after Tim has stopped breathing heavily in an attempt to prevent himself from bringing his stomach up. “You're from an… an alternative universe, I suppose I can say?”

“Yeah,” confirms Tim, drawing in one last sharp breath, once again amazed by Bart's brilliance. For all his cheer and joviality, there is a head upon his shoulders unparalleled by any speedster before him. “But how did you figure that?”

“Easy,” says Bart with a shrug, “I've been studying this incident since… since it happened I guess. No one believed me when I told them my theory. So I set out to fix things without their help.”

In response, Tim feels a pang of pity. “I know how that feels,” he replies, somewhat cryptically, but doesn't elaborate.

Bart eyes him seriously, but returns no reply. Eventually he huffs and turns away, crossly folding his arms over his chest. “Unbelievable,” he scoffs, annoyed. “Now there's _two_ of you I have to worry about.”

Tim sighs loudly and with enough exasperation that it prompts Bart to look back again. “Why don't you explain this to me,” he says, as even and measured as he can manage. “Go from the start.”

Bart tips his head all the way back and stares up at the trees with a look of vexation, as though he is barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes and stomping his foot like a child. After a moment of what appears to be the teen weighing up his options, Bart flings his head forward with a sigh and unfolds his arms wearily. He begins by crouching, perching himself over the dirt before motioning for Tim to do the same.

Tim sits, as instructed, upon a bed of dirt and pine needles that scent the damp earth lightly.

“Alright,” the speedster begins, more a suspiration than a true word. “It's like this―” with his index, Bart pokes a hole in the earth and uses his finger like a pencil to draw. “We're here―” he draws a small circle with the tip, “―and your universe is here and my universe is over here.” Bart draws two more circles, parallel to each other but away from his initial dot. “But don't you see…? It's―”

“It's not two universes,” Tim interrupts, faintly feeling his jaw drop.

“Correct,” declares Bart with a grin, pointing his index skyward. “It's not two universes. Or, at least it wasn't. Not initially.”

“Now, we can consider this the flashpoint,” Bart continues, pointing at the first dot made. “It was the point of the explosion and it is where the timeline divided.” With his finger, he draws one divergent line in the earth, connecting the first dot to the second, then repeating the step with the first dot to the third. “It was at this point that our universes split in two. As the one closest to the bomb, the timelines latched onto _you_ _―_ in one universe you died, in the other you lived.”

“Me?” questions Tim, staring down at the scratches in the dirt incredulously. “Then why don't I remember?” he asks, pointing his own finger at the afore-drawn line deemed to belong to him. “Why don't I remember this? The bomb, you, escaping? Why don't I remember any of it? To me, none of this ever happened until I crossed over into this universe.”

Bart nods sagely, more serious than Tim thinks the teen has ever been in his life, as though he has been expecting this exact question from the very beginning. “Time is a strange, fickle thing,” he muses aloud. “Everything that happened before the explosion happened in both worlds, it's just that in the world where you _survived_ the incident, it was completely erased from the timeline. You might imagine it like this: our two worlds are like sparklers. One incident set off two flames, but in your world the sparkler burnt to a crisp until there was nothing left, whereas in _mine_ the sparkler was faulty and stopped burning partway through.”

“This line,” Bart continues, pointing at his own, “remembers the events _only_ because the divergent timeline ended. _Only_ because you died. In your own timeline,” he gestures back at the parallel streak, “ _no_ one remembers these events. Not you, nor anyone in your universe. In that timeline, you stopped the bomb and reset time. In your universe, none of this ever happened.”

The feeling of baffled bewilderment must show on his face, because Bart sighs again, loudly and unhelpfully. After huffing a long exhalation, he jerks his head back again and pins Tim with a steely glare.

“Don't you get it, Tim?” he asks, sounding minutely frustrated. “In your universe, these events _never happened_ because _you_ reset the bomb.”

Nothing feels entirely real. Tim feels unreal. This _can't_ be real.

“So,” he starts, slowly, “you're saying if we can just manage to… reset the bomb here too… if we save my counterpart, then…?”

Bart nods excitedly. “That's right!” he interjects. “If we reset the bomb in this universe too, then none of this will have ever happened. The timelines will fuse and become one again. They'll be _whole_ again. The problem I am having,” he adds, more thoughtful now, “is that I either time it wrong and rescue Tim― _uh,_ the _other_ Tim―before he finishes dismantling the bomb―leading to a time-shattering explosion which then resets the loop, _or_ I'm too late and… and yeah, we get caught in the explosion. Which then, obviously, resets the loop, because the loop is attached to _you_.”

In theory, saving his counterpart sounds like the win-win situation Bart is looking for. The timeline will reset, their two universes will merge into one again, but…

_B_ _ut that means… Conner…_

“How much of the two universes will merge together?” he asks, hastily, an aggravated agitation crawling beneath his skin. “How can we tell what will remain preserved and what won't?”

Bart shrugs. “We can't,” he replies with an outward gesture of his palms, almost nonchalant. “It's a fifty-fifty gamble. The only sure outcome will be that you _live.”_

In _theory_ , Tim will live, but in reality all that means is that many others will die or disappear on him.

_It_ _means Conner still has_ _a fifty percent chance of dying. It means that Bruce has a fifty percent chance of becoming stuck in the timeline. It means a fifty percent chance that Damian dies, that Jason_ _murders innocents_ _, that Superman is driven from Metropolis._

The idea occurs to him as if through a dream. _The hole whispers it to him quietly, smirking its enormous white teeth in a malicious, rictus grin._

“There's another way to reset the universe,” he croaks, his voice tight and grim, a lump in his throat that cannot be swallowed past. Tim moves to stand again, his knees pop as he hauls himself up. “One that _doesn't_ require precise timing.”

With a curious, owlish blink, Bart cranes his neck to look up. “What… what do you mean?” he asks, nervously. “Another way? _How?”_ Maybe he's right to be nervous, but with the time-loop closing rapidly, this is the fastest way.

With a thin, ghostly smile, Tim turns away. It's selfish, but he doesn't want to look at Bart's face as he speaks.

“We could both live,” he explains, feeling a shame ricochet inside him. In part, he feels as though he is letting Bart down. “We could both live and the universe would reset, _or_ we could both―”

Beside him, Bart sucks in a sharp breath, his bottom lip quivering with the action. “No,” he interrupts in a whisper, then quickly repeats as a shout, “ _no!_ If you're implying―”

Tim's eyes snap open as he spins rapidly on his heel, finally facing Bart again, who has gone the coldest shade of alabaster. “I'm not implying anything,” he returns, curtly. “I'm saying that for everyone else to live, _I_ have to die too. Look at it this way: one version of me has already died hundreds upon hundreds of times over. Imagine it like a knife, slowly scratching back and forth over the same indent―it's easier to find that same indent each time you go back to it. Now, if both the Tim back there currently trying to disarm the bomb _and_ myself die, then the universe will reset, but it will reset to _your_ universe because the knife, the time-loop, has been scratching over that same section of time repeatedly. No one else has to die. Even on the _off chance_ that you did manage to get the timing right, that you did manage to get both versions of me and yourself out of this time-loop, it is as you said: a fifty-fifty chance merger of the two time-lines. Who knows what will stick and what won't?”

Bart stands in response, obviously angry now. “I didn't spent _years_ of my life trapped in this time-loop for no god-damn reason you selfish asshole―”

“―and I didn't ask you to do that!” Tim whirls on him, yelling back, cutting in over top with balled fists by his side.

“You didn't have too!” Bart shouts, looking paradoxically furious and close to tears. “That's what friends _do_ for each other, we have each other's backs and we _help_ each other and if you think for one second that I―”

“―what if helping me caused you to die, huh? Would you still―”

“―of course I would, you idiot! Because you're my friend!”

In the air, there is a cool chill. It blows on the wind, it rustles the pines in the woods behind them. Cold silence, as jagged and frozen as a broken glacier slides between them.

“You can't be serious,” Bart finally says, but the hurt and anger in his voice tells Tim he already knows the answer.

“I am,” he replies, digging out the button handed to him by Raven. With his free hand, he grabs Bart by the wrist and brings up his balled fist, opening up his fingers until his palm is laying flat. Clicking the button once, he presses it into Bart's hand and then closes his fist back up tightly over it again.

Suddenly, a purple portal opens up behind Bart, the swirling edges faintly licking at the forest trees. It makes the other boy flinch.

“Don't do this Tim,” he whispers, his voice low, its quality dropped to an entreating beg. _“Please, please_ do not do this. There's another way―”

“―if there truly was another way,” Tim interjects gently, “you would have found it by now. The timing just doesn't work out, Bart. Me, surviving the explosion? That was a fluke and the universe _knows_ it. All it is trying to do is simply rectify the mistake made.”

Bart says nothing, but his face never loses the desperate, hopeless expression.

“Tell them I love them,” Tim says, placing both hands upon the other boy's shoulders, before deciding in the end, to go in for a hug. “Tell them I love them, okay?”

With that, he lets go, gently shoving Bart into the portal as he releases.

The purple vortex closes up behind him and suddenly, Tim is alone.

* * *

The loop resets.

Tim finds himself standing by as the wings of a bird flutter past.

It's a mess, he thinks for a second time, looking around at a perfectly average day in Gotham and feeling the deja vu wash over him. _Except it's not deja vu, it really has happened before._ There are still no wailing sirens like he thinks there should be, the city is still strangely sunny and the pulse through the air is one of quiet tension, exactly as it was before.

This time, Bart does not blitz past. There is no shock of red hair, nor the rush of wind that usually accompanies him. It's eerily quiet.

Turning on his heel, he recalls the previous path he took, tracing his tracks back until he rounds the same corner between the main street and the subway exit on fifth. T.O. Morrow once more stands in full view, laughing just as manically as he had the first time. It still feels just as surreal the second time through. The villain slips through the opaque green and yellow portal with the same jovial shout as before and a younger Cassie catches his attention by throwing several curses to the wind in rapid succession before racing off to clear the citizens in sight from the blast radius of the bomb.

Finally, his eyes come to rest on his counterpart.

_Well, not his counterpart_ _yet,_ he thinks. The time-line only diverged the moment one Tim lived and the other died. The boy in front of him? It is simply Tim. Tim as he was before. Not a counterpart, but merely a younger version of himself. A version of himself he doesn't remember because he's from the so called _lucky_ time-line where he _lived._

_Lucky is a subjective term,_ he muses unhappily.

All this time he had thought of them as two separate people, but the truth was much simpler than it'd first appeared.

Without a second thought, he kicks his feet into gear and walks over. There's no hesitation in his footsteps, he shakes it out before it can even settle into his muscles.

_He's ready. He's scared, more so than he's ever been in his life, but he's ready. Plus, he won't die alone._

The younger version of himself neglects to notice the new presence until Tim is almost standing by his side, scrutinising the bomb, already able to tell that the detonation device will be impossible to dismantle in the time they now have left. If Tim could remember how he prevented the bomb from going off in his own universe, he could save them both, but he doesn't and there's no guarantee it was something Tim did on purpose either. The bomb might have just failed to go off in his universe.

The younger Robin, wearing that same little golden _R_ on his chest, swears and nearly falls backwards with surprise.

“ _What on―”_ begins the smaller Tim, hastily brushing his too-long bangs out of his eyes and leaving a dirty smear across his forehead. “Who the hell are you?”

Beside him, Tim himself plops down onto the ground and leans back on the bomb itself, nearly twice his size and sturdy enough not to budge as he rests against it.

With a smirk and slight turn of his neck, he grinningly asks, “Who do I look like?”

The littler Robin scoffs, but it's too anxious to sound amused. “You're not me,” he says, staring Tim down like the imposter he feels like. “You're old.”

At that, Tim laughs. “No,” he says. “I'm not you.” He doesn't elaborate.

The younger Robin harrumphs and, in part, it reminds him of Damian. “Listen, pal,” he says with a distinctive snark in his tone. “That's my bomb you're laying on, so you can leave and go back to your own business, I was doing just fine here on my own.”

In reply, Tim simply tuts. “Nuh-uh,” he returns, “I'm the oldest Robin here, so I'm in charge. No bossing _me_ around.”

The kid splutters. “You're not _Nightwing,”_ he stammers, then recovers himself a little. “Besides, if you're… if you're me then, then―”

“I already told you, kid,” he sighs, reclining a little further so as to glance up at the sky. _He wants his last sight to be of the Gotham sky._ “I'm not you.” It doesn't even sound like a lie.

“Well,” says the younger Tim, annoyed, “then you can do as I say _and get off the bomb I'm dismantling.”_

Slowly, Tim watches the faint, little white clouds scud across the sky, happy in their coming and going.

There's a moment more of fiddling on the younger Robin's behalf, before he exclaims, loudly, _“There!_ Finished with the time component―that's _definitely_ T.O. Morrow's handiwork right there. Now to finish up the blast component., though this doesn't look like his work…”

The resignation and defeat that leaves Tim's mouth isn't done so intentionally, but yet it does so nonetheless. “You won't make it,” he returns, a sigh. “It's too late.”

The kid says nothing to that, only continues to work at the wiring of the bomb.

It's probably fair. Tim wouldn't acknowledge himself either if he was trying to save the team, the city, the world. The littler Robin doesn't know, though. He doesn't know the rest of the team will live, that they'll carry on without him.

_This is the last thing Tim can do for them. For both the Titan's as well as his family._

Tim Drake was never meant to live. Tim Drake was always meant to die young. It was something he'd believed for the longest time. The fact that he _had_ lived as long as he did… it had always felt _wrong,_ felt off. As though some part of him _knew_ he wasn't supposed to still be counted among the living.

Now, resting lazily against the end of his existence, it all makes sense.

Beside him, the boy curses quietly, but creatively.

_Finally,_ thinks as he watches the kid quietly sit back on his heels to stare wide-eyed at the tangled mess of wiring in front of him. _Finally he understands._ This Tim is younger, more naive. Thoughts are probably racing through his head right now. Thoughts only pertaining to Bruce, _how can he die like this? Bruce will never forgive him, not so soon after his last Robin, Jason_ _―_

It's the same understanding Tim gained through Bart's explanation―that no matter which way the cake is sliced, there just isn't time to prevent the time-loop _along with_ Tim's death. The two universes have been trying to merge for a long time now, trying to fix the mistake, but never quite able to no thanks to the living Tim's presence. Now, finally, it can.

_The one truth_ this _younger, naiver Tim doesn't know, is that Bruce doesn't truly care for him. Bruce cares for Robin, not for Timothy Drake. Had this Tim lived as he had lived, then he would know._

“I…” he starts, his voice cracking midway through. “I can't dismantle this. It's… it's too complicated!”

Frightened eyes turn on Tim's form, tears budding. The kid is scared.

“I know,” he replies, resignation throbbing uselessly in his tone. “I know.”

Opening his arms wide, the younger version of himself crawls between them and he holds himself close.

“Is this the end for us?” the boy asks through a tearful, scared whisper, his face buried in the kevlar of Tim's suit.

_Maybe the smaller Tim is wondering about his own glass case in the Batcave right now, maybe not, but with more surety than his older counterpart, he most certainly believes Bruce will mourn him._

It is something the older Tim can only question.

He doesn't have the energy to wonder.

The kindest thing he can do is leave out a reply to the boy, instead he just pulls the younger version of himself closer. It truly feels like wrapping his arms around his middle, hugging himself, waiting for the end.

_This is it,_ he thinks, not so kind to himself. _This is the end._

The count-down hits 0:59.

Tim blinks up at the Gotham sky.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a missed call and a voice mail, both from Pru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were so many things I had to say about this chapter. I had things to put in this forward, but would you believe I have now forgotten each and every one of them 😅.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

There is nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do but watch the fluffy, white clouds drift across the faint haze that's been present in Gotham for as long as Tim can remember. It's calm. The world around him is contradictorily peaceful, the city is quiet.

In his arms, he holds the younger version of himself close. Naturally, the boy is scared, but there's a resignation there too―the same resignation that now weighs down upon Tim's own shoulders, the one that keeps him in place.

The square in which they sit is almost noiseless. The Titan's must have evacuated the blast radius by now, along with all the citizens in the area. It's just Tim, his former self and the emptiness of a place he once called home.

There's a soft sough through the few city trees and a Robin twitters overhead. It's halcyonic almost, pleasantly placid with all the laziness of a Sunday afternoon, though Tim isn't really sure _what_ day it is, or if that even matters.

Behind them, the bomb ticks away, the timer counting down with a steady, metronomic rhythm.

Briefly detaching himself from the young Robin, Tim reaches for the largest pouch on his utility belt, where he had stored his cellphone before running into Ra's compound in search of Cassie. The intent to leave a final goodbye message is interrupted by the sight of two small notifications on the black and white, pixel screen.

There's a missed call and a voice mail, both from Pru.

A hard pang winds him for a moment, his sternum heaves with the effort to draw in a next breath.

_Prudence is someone he left behind, someone who may spend the rest of her life wondering what happened to him._ If he had time, he would call her back, but he doesn't. Instead, he presses play on the voice-mail and lifts the phone up to his ear.

The voice that speaks is not the one he had thought to hear.

_It's not Pru._

_It's Bruce._

The scratchy, rough tone on the voice-mail almost has Tim fumbling and dropping the phone as he pulls it away from his ear to check the number. The call is definitely from Pru's phone, which means― _which means it's not this world's Bruce, but his own._

Some part of him curls around that thought protectively, shielding it, hiding it away, wrapping it up like he's securing it in bubble-wrap.

“It's. It's me―” Bruce begins, tongue thick and heavy, words slow like molasses. “It's Bruce. I…”

Quickly, Tim reaffirms his grip and presses the phone hard up against the shell of his ear, almost not daring to breathe as the man's strangled, _scared_ whisper relays a message, left what might as well be eons ago for all that it matters now.

The voice chokes off, abruptly halting. Just barely, he can make out deep breathing. It's an exercise to control heart-rate, one that doesn't entirely sound as if it is working.

“ _God_ ,” Bruce manages on an exhale filled with _far_ too much. This doesn't sound like the Bruce he remembers. This is not the distant, calculating, withdrawn man Tim recalls. This is not the same Bruce that told him to get out, the one that didn't _want_ a new Robin after Jason.

This is the Bruce who fears. Who is terrified and afraid. This is the Bruce after a long, heavy patrol. The kind of patrol he used to down a bottle of something 40 proof before collapsing into an undignified and unconscious heap over the batcomputer in the early hours before dawn. This is the Bruce that Tim was _needed_ for. The kind he used to have to drag up to bed, or at least lay a blanket over. Maybe Tim had been made to grow up too fast, maybe he never should have had to take care of Bruce that way―scraping him up off the floor where he fell, but at least he'd felt wanted. At least he'd felt _needed_.

The voice of Bruce over the phone is the same Bruce that Tim remembers during the first few months of his time as Robin.

_This is the sound of a Bruce who has lost a son._

It hurts. _It hurts._ It hurts like someone has punched him in the gut.

“There's so much I want to say,” Bruce goes on, before Tim has yet recovered, still not able to draw in a full breath without his chest aching. There's a fast building pressure behind his eyes, but steadfastly, he doesn't blink. “So much I _need_ to say. Too much, I think. I…” Bruce trips over words, stumbling, like one might fall over river rocks in a dry stream.

“There's not enough time for me to say it all,” he continues, tone hoarse, unable to be wrangled into something less. Then, still just as hoarse, but with a pleading, desperate peal, _“Please_ kiddo, call me back. _Please.”_

Despite knowing Tim let Bruce and his own world go weeks ago, the guilt still surges up like a tidal wave and comes crashing down with full force. It's enough to draw the sharp prickling forward to the corners of his eyes and snap something fine and already threadbare inside him.

“I―I am coming for you, Tim,” he says, eliciting a sharp inhalation from him, one that hisses sharply as it whistles past his clenched teeth. “I know you think you're alone right now, and that's…” there's a brief pause, “that's _my_ fault, I know. But―”

Unfeeling to the point of being stunned into numbness, each gentle _thud_ of his heart against his ribcage momentarily aligns with the beep of the countdown.

“―I love you, Tim,” he whispers, obviously not bothering to smother the strong emotions as they slam into him, too many too name, too numerous to even _know._ Just barely, Tim is unable to choke back a dry sob. It heaves upwards until it's a bubble, exploding into the air. The boy beside him says nothing, arms simply tightening around his waist. “And―”

The dial tone cuts Bruce off, whatever he had intended to say, lost.

Slowly, Tim peels the phone away from his ear, holding it in his palm as he stares down at it.

“Bruce loves us,” he whispers, both to the smaller version of himself curled up tightly around his mid-section and himself. “He. He _loves_ us.”

The littler Robin shifts just a little, looking up to meet his eyes. The vision is watery and indistinct. There is the faintest of smiles on the boy's face and a sparkle in his eye that Tim cannot help but feel he lost long ago. Lost to betrayal and helplessness and time.

“I know,” the smaller Tim whispers back, still with just the slightest hint of a smile. “Bruce isn't good at expressing himself, but I always thought… I always figured that one day, he would admit it.”

Slightly stunned, a sudden but quiet burst of laughter escapes out of the older Tim as he lightly knocks elbows with his counterpart, a wet but happy sound.

“You're a smart kid,” he says.

Robin grins up at him.

“We are.”

* * *

It happens without warning. A burst of light, a flash, briefly blinding him. For the briefest of seconds, it's like looking into the sun. The flash dies away quickly, fading like a dying star on the horizon, to be replaced by indistinct violets and indigos that writhe and swirl like a hazy gasses; a portal, and a familiar one, at that.

A silhouette, tall and shapeless at first, steps across the threshold swiftly and approaches gracelessly, without abandon.

It takes him longer than it probably should to put two and two together, for his brain to reboot and compute.

At his sudden cessation of movement, the littler Tim looks up, confused by the new-struck rigidity of his pose.

Two feet come to a stop in front of them, dark and heavy boots surrounded by a billowing black cape, jagged as though someone had hacked at it's edges thoughtlessly.

“ _Tim.”_

The word is but a rasp, a cracked, husky syllable imbued with enough fragile relief to balance glass upon it.

_No, it can't be._

“You shouldn't be here…” he hisses, more winded than he would like. _“You shouldn't_ _―_ _”_

The little Robin wrenches himself free of Tim's grasp and beelines to Batman, two arms wrapping around his middle.

Suddenly, _horribly,_ it all falls into place with a painful click.

_For one minute he'd thought…_

… he'd thought this was _his_ Bruce.

“I've found you,” he says, plainly, Tim averting his eyes from Batman and his beloved Robin. _It hurts too much to look at._ The relief in Bruce's voice stings like a whip.

A thought strikes him. Hard, fast. Like a hammer tempering steel, with the force of the blow enough to knock the wind right out of him.

“You shouldn't be here,” he whispers once more before his lips bend together, pressing tightly, falling into a grimace. A single hand skirts through his hair, tugging roughly at the loose strands and yanking them free, while the other tugs at the flap on a pouch attached to his utility belt.

When his words seem to draw no effect, finally, he looks up, meeting Bruce's cowl covered eyes. It's a struggle to swallow it all down, but this is the last gift Tim can give them. Perhaps he has no right to give it, after all, what right does he have to mess with people's lives by allowing the dual time-lines to exist? Still…

_Still._ Shouldn't this Robin, this happy, beloved little Tim be allowed to live? And the jaded, cynical Red Robin finally be laid to rest? It's wrong, Tim knows it's wrong. By allowing the two timelines to exist he is enabling two futures where there should be one. And who knows what paradoxical events might happen down the road? For starters, his counterpart, the bright, bubbly Robin who still believes whole-heartedly in Batman and his crusade, is going back to a world where Damian is _older_ than him. A world where Jason is alive. A world where Dick considers losing Tim to be his greatest failure. A world where Batman simply ceased, leaving only Bruce Wayne in his stead.

“You need to go,” Tim says then, more forcefully, hauling himself off the ground with a palm pressed flush to the ground and drawing a look of confusion and a sliver of hurt from the exposed and readable parts of Batman's face. Little stones and bits of gravel dig into his hand as he pushes upwards, leaving little dents that cut into his flesh. “You need to get out of here now.”

Bruce, lenses in the cowl wide and face whiter than alabaster, reaches out a gloved hand to his shoulder which is easily shaken off.

_Tim doesn't want to pretend anymore. He doesn't want to pretend he's fine being a replacement, a permanent stand-in for someone else. Just once he wants to be enough by himself._

And this? Giving Batman back the Robin he lost? This is the last gift of a lifetime.

Tim has the power. The power to stay. The power to allow the time-loop to close with him still inside it. The power to continue the duality of the timelines.

_To die now. To choose Batman and Robin over Timothy Drake._

Tim was never meant to live a long and happy life.

Batman continues to stare at him, riddled with confusion and seemingly rooted in place, perhaps from shock.

Deliberately, Tim chooses to look at the ground as he speaks. It feels like an act of cowardice. Fingernails, unclipped, dig into his palms as his fingers curl into fists by his sides.

“Go,” he says, a rush of air more than a word, then with a touch more bitterness, “I'm sure you've worked it out by now.”

Tim's knuckles ache with the strength of which he clenches them tight, while Batman remains utterly still and silent with a tiny bird glued to his side under his cape. _Had Tim ever really been that small?_

“I'm not from a _different_ universe, B,” he explains anyway, in wake of the silence he receives. “This―” he gestures around the empty square, absent of life with the exception of them, “―was my universe once too. _He_ _―_ _”_ he jabs an index finger in the direction of the smaller Robin, “―is what I once was.”

Tim can do this. Bruce can have back the Tim he loved dearly enough to try and replace with a cheap, poorly formed reproduction. It's okay. He can have the _real_ thing now.

“This moment in time,” he continues, still not meeting the gaze he can feel raking over him, “is where we diverged. I was not meant to live. The universe has been trying to correct that mistake ever since.”

Finally, _finally,_ with a head as heavy as lead, Tim lifts his chin. Something wet slides off his cheek as he raises his gaze to meet Bruce's. It almost startles him how much pain he can read behind the cowl, but he doesn't allow himself a misstep or to falter.

“You don't need me any more,” he whispers, a faint laugh behind the words as he smiles, not bothering to wipe away the tears that fall freely now. “You don't need a replacement”―he uncurls a fist to gesture at the small boy still clinging to the folds of the cape― “you've got the real thing.”

The words hang in the still, silent air.

Then, steadily, as if in slow motion, Bruce peels away from the young child clinging to him. He closes the gap of five feet between them. Up close, Tim can see the flecks of grey in his stubble and the withered lines on his face that tell of his age. Time has not been kind to this Bruce Wayne, grief has consumed parts of him that Tim isn't sure can be healed even with the presence of a newly-resurrected Robin. Still, he hopes it's enough to quell the storm inside the man.

Two sturdy arms come up and wrap around him out of nowhere, one swiftly wrapping around his back while the other curls and snakes itself up past the nape of his neck, gloved fingers tightly pressing into the base of his skull.

It takes his brain a few seconds to recognise the embrace as a hug. A few more for him to realise he should reciprocate it.

In return, his own unsteady arms draw around Bruce's back, wearily closing over his middle. Tim thinks he feels a wetness in his hair. Then, it's over. Bruce draws back.

_But, as he does so, he slides the cowl off._

“No,” returns the man, his voice scratchy and hoarse like glass. It's familiar. _It's achingly, painfully familiar. It's_ _―_ “You've _never_ been a replacement, Tim.”

Despite the almost _electric_ shock that runs the length of his spine, jerking him into movement like Frankenstein awakening a monster, it takes him a moment more still to meet the dark eyes of the man, worn and haggard.

_Impossible,_ his brain supplies.

“You've always been my Robin.”

A hand curls around his own, gripping tightly, like someone clutching for dear life.

Then, suddenly, his feet are moving.

Bruce is running. On his other side, the determined form of his doppelganger is sprinting too.

Without warning, the portal, open and shockingly inviting for it's foreboding appearance, is suddenly less than a foot away.

Behind them, the timer on the bomb goes off loudly, with rapid, heart-stopping beeps.

Immediately, Tim is tackled, thrusting him forward with the weight of kevlar. The something shoots them forward, his face turns into the heavy breast-plate to pre-emptively shield his eyes.

_It isn't possible,_ he thinks, still reeling, ears ringing, _and yet…_

Suddenly, he knows _who_ is embracing him.

“ _Bruce_ ,” he whispers, but the noise is caught in the explosion.

* * *

His ears are still ringing, his eyes slammed shut, his face braced against hard, unfeeling, but familiar kevlar that smells like leather and cinnamon aftershave. His mind, however, is whirring just as fast as his heart is thumping in his chest.

There's a congregation of people not too far off, his mind registers, but right now the world is minuscule. It's just him and Bruce.

Eventually, one of them peels away.

Tim looks up.

Bruce stares back. He stares with the intensity of a dying man at the elixir of life.

Neither of them say anything.

Tim simply drinks in the sight of his father, _and it is_ his _Bruce_ _. He doesn't know how, but it is._

In return, Bruce doesn't dare release him completely. _It's like he's afraid_ _Tim_ _will slip through his fingers, like_ _fine sand._

There's no doppelganger on his right anymore.

It takes his mind a minute to catch up.

_No,_ he realises, drawing a fist over his chest. The shuttering breath he heaves in sounds like the kind of breath a crying child might take between one terrified wail and the next. _No, there's no doppelganger anymore. They're one and the same, now._

The heart-beat of the little Robin beats within him now, though Tim himself feels no different.

The timeline has been corrected. There's only one Tim Drake now. Only one.

Neither of them say anything for a very long time. Bruce simply watches. Never quite letting go, but allowing a moment for Tim to process. The quiet that settles is charged with unsaid things.

It's Tim who cracks first, his voice shaking harder than a leaf in a gale. The searching, uncovered eyes, haunted and worried and relieved all at once, is what does it.

“B…?” he asks, choking on the single syllable the moment it comes out, cracked and tight and tinny.

It's not much, but it's enough.

Bruce scoops him back into a hug and buries his face in Tim's hair and seems to want to squeeze, his lungs themselves out of his chest.

“Tim,” he says, voice unmistakably thick with tears.

Tim wraps his arms around Bruce's back hesitantly. “I… don't understand,” he stutters, tripping over words and tentative. _God, there's so much he doesn't understand…_

Bruce, he… Tim had let go. He'd let go, he'd finally figured out what he was meant to _do_ with his life. After an absence of _months,_ why was Bruce _here?_ How was Bruce here? What… what did this even _mean?_

There are too many emotions running rampant inside Tim's aching chest, each and every one more confusing and conflicting than the last.

There are so many things he wants to say, so many questions he wants to ask, but he doesn't. Instead, he asks, “How… are you here?”

Bruce blinks at him once.

No answer is forthcoming.

“I thought…” he begins anew, cutting himself off almost immediately before trying again. “You… we… Bruce I haven't… I _left.”_

In return, the man simply nods. It's long and slow and lethargic, but Bruce never stops staring like Tim has been raised from the dead. _It's all wrong. Bruce doesn't look at him like that._ Maybe Dick, maybe Jason, maybe Damian, but not Tim…

“I know,” he says, reeling Tim in, closing his arms around tense shoulders and breaking down the barriers, unspoken, that have laid between them for _months._ “I know you did. I know. I'm… _sorry.”_

Something small attacks his waist, then. Followed by two more arms wrapping around his shoulders and a third hand clapping him on the shoulder.

“ _Tim,”_ he hears Bruce whisper, fingers carding roughly through his dark locks of hair, the words suddenly reminding him that he isn't the only one to have become one and the same as his counterpart. “ _You are not anybody's replacement. You are Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne and you are my son.”_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! We've reached the end! Thank you all for sticking with me throughout this story. I apologise in making you wait for this short little epilogue. Thank you all for reading and commenting. 
> 
> All my love,  
> Selkie

_Pru's thumb hovers over the well-familiar name on her phone screen as she perches atop the Gotham skyscraper. Breathing in the night air, the bracingly cold wind leaves her feeling alive and slightly reckless. It's odd, that this easy to do task has her hesitating, sitting on that borderline fence between something she_ wants _to do and something she dreads to do._

_It's been two weeks since the two universes came into alignment, although somehow it does not yet feel like so much time has passed. Life has moved both too quickly and too slowly for Prudence's liking; two full weeks spent looking for signs as to Owens and Z's whereabouts and finding none. If nothing else, though, she cannot deny that the time spent in the dual universes has somehow managed to teach her a degree of patience._

She'll find them, she _knows_ she will. _It's just a matter of time. And, really, the important step will come after._

_Without their counterparts to merge with, it's unlikely Owens and Z will have changed in the slightest. Without Pru's counterpart to merge with, they might not even want to know her. Prudence did kill her copy, after all._

_Rubbing the side of her temple with frigid fingers, she makes to dislodge the thoughts physically. There's no point in letting the same mouse run the same course._ _One step at a time. Find them_ first, _then, after that… well._

_On the flip side, so much has taken place in the last two weeks, despite her inability to find the two men she considered family._

_Though it's been almost a week without word, Pru knows Tim is doing okay―he would have sought her out if he wasn't. The last she had heard from him, he'd moved out of his apartment―at least temporarily―to move back in with his family._

_It's a big step, although a move Pru supports. Tim needs this. They all do. It's a chance for change. A chance for all of them to right the wrongs and settle into a new normal. They were entirely separate, different people two weeks ago. The universe's coming into alignment will have changed everything for them, Tim most of all._

_A cold zephyr whips up from the street below, catching her sigh as it escapes her lips._

_Prudence_ knows _this is right, this is the best thing for all of them. Yet, the kernel of worry, buried inside her from the moment she and Tim parted ways, never did truly leave her. Once upon a time she would not have found anything remiss if they'd not spoken for months, but now… after all that has happened, well, things are_ different _now. Not good or bad, just different._

_Steeling herself with a deep breath, she figures her hesitance is only delaying the inevitable. Without thinking on it any longer, her thumb smacks down over the 'call' button. She raises the phone in her hand to press against the shell of her cold, numb ear. Swallowing hard against the nervousness, the slip of anxiety, she runs her fingers over the large bandage across her throat―a force of habit now, more than anything. Though her counterpart didn't survive their encounter, the wounds Prudence had left her with had._

_Yeah, life wasn't any better or worse now, it was just different._

_Batman―_ Bruce― _had struck her as the biggest change. The two Bruce's personalities, once so distinct, seemed odd in the one man. To begin with, she had simply compartmentalised the two into: The Bruce Wayne that had Permanently Lost a Son, and the Bruce Wayne That Hadn't, but it became evident that categorising the man, divided, but whole, could no longer be achieved so simply. Those two very differently shaped men were one now, that had not taken long to become clear._

_On the other end of the line, someone suddenly picks up._

“ _Hello?”_

“ _Hey.”_

“ _Pru.”_

_She nods dumbly, knowing he can't see her._

_Just the sound of his voice helps to alleviate the worry in her stomach to a degree._

“ _How… are you?”_

_She can almost hear him smile down the phone. The both of them have worried for the other, it seems._

“ _I'm… fine. Good. I'm good.”_

_Pru closes her eyes against the cold gust, still continuing to whip and tear at her clothing._

_There's a beat of silence. Then, “That's good to hear,” she replies. “They're… treating you well?”_

_There's an affirmative grunt. It's followed by, “… feels strange.” Then, a diversion: “how's the neck?”_

_Pru reads the words for what they are._ Tim isn't ready to talk yet. _There is too much still new and so much still raw; she understands that. Two weeks isn't enough to fix and repair what was broken. The Wayne's still have a long way to go and, Pru suspects, Bruce Wayne most of all._

“ _Fine,” she says shaking her thoughts free, brushing two fingers over the bandage, once again briefly remembering the fight between herself and the doppelganger she killed. She doesn't feel any different, but if the other Prudence had lived, she wonders if she would. After the morbid thought, it is her turn to deflect. “How's the spleen doing?”_

“ _Fine,” he replies with a tight little laugh, not on edge, but something close. “It's a little strange to have one again, I guess. Just knowing it's there is a little…”_

“ _Disturbing?” she supplies easily. “Weird? Yeah, I know what you mean. It's a little strange knowing Owens and Z are out there somewhere in the world. I watched them both die once. It's strange to know they're out there somewhere again.”_

“ _Speaking of, how is the search going?”_

_She shrugs. “About as well can be expected. They're assassins. And I'm the one who killed myself… it makes sense they might not want to see me, but I can't just not look for them, you know? They're my family.”_

_Tim sighs, sympathy plaintive. “I get it,” he replies, fractionally softer than before. “And you'll find them, Pru. I promise. Family has a… a hard time staying apart, I've found.”_

_The joke makes her laugh. “It certainly seems that way for some,” she chuckles, teasing. “As the resident expert on the subject, I'd ask for your help, but that'd be selfish of me. There's a lot keeping you in Gotham now. I get it. Plus, there's your own team. I'm sure you feel the same way about them.”_

_Tim sounds as though he measures out his response, each word carefully selected. “Yeah… I do. I'd never admit this to them, but… it is a little weird having them back. Superboy especially.”_

_She nods, once more momentarily forgetting Tim cannot see her. “I'm sure. Getting loved ones back from the dead is… it can be rough. Good, but rough.”_

_Tim grunts in agreement. That is something they can easily agree on._

“ _That's how Bruce feels, I'm sure,” he adds a moment later. “I'm both the Robin who died and the Robin who lived. I don't know if he's unpacking all of that or not, but he's visiting a therapist now. A psychologist.”_

_At this new information, her eyebrows rise._

“ _Really?” she questions, surprise unmistakable, even over the phone. “Batman, seeing a therapist. I can't say I saw that one coming.”_

_A small huff of laughter hits her ears. “Yeah,” Tim agrees readily. “Didn't think I'd live to see the day either, but he's not the same man anymore… and I guess neither am I.” After a pause in which Prudence senses Tim is lost in his thoughts, the teen snaps back to the conversation. “What I mean to say is: he's changing. For the better, I think. It's hard. Because I know it can't all be fixed so easily, but I_ want _this so badly, Pru. I'm just… scared.”_

_With a voice that sounds so small and young, Prudence can't help the way her heart goes out to him._

“ _Change_ is _scary,” she returns. “That doesn't mean you should run from it.” After a minute, allowing Tim to absorb her last sentiment, she goes on. “You didn't see the same two versions Bruce Wayne's that I did. Two stoic men, both desperate to find you. They―_ he― _wants to fix this, Tim. I truly believe that. It's going to take a lot of hard work, but… but Bruce Wayne is a man who cares. Bruce Wayne cares for you.”_

_Tim doesn't reply, not with any words, but the silence is telling all on its own._

_After a minute, his soft voice travels down the phone line once more, so quiet she almost misses the small 'thank you'._

“ _This isn't the end,” she offers. “Hardly even close.”_

_A small noise. “I know,” he quavers. “I guess I just got so used to being the replacement that I never thought about the alternative.”_

_A shadow on her left catches her attention. It's barely a blur of movement, but it brings a smile to her lips._

_It's not…_

_It_ can't _be…_

_The figure catches her eye._

“ _Well,” Prudence says, teeth showing, eyes tracking the silhouette. “That right there looks like my cue, Tweety bird. Sorry to cut and run on you.” There's another noise over the phone, but it sounds a little like hair rubbing against the receiver―Tim must be shaking his head._

“ _Take care of yourself, kid,” she adds. “And don't think of this as the end, remember. It's just the beginning.”_

“ _Bye, Pru,” he says. “And good luck.”_

“ _Later, Tim.”_

_With that, she hangs up the call and sucks in a deep breath of night air._

_Things aren't there yet, but they're getting close._

“ _Yeah,” she says under her breath to the cool breeze. “Good luck, kid.”_

_This, she reminds herself, is a new timeline. Anything is possible._

_THE END_

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this work! Also, if you want to make a new friend, come chat with me at: [Tumblr](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/).


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